When Age Comes On
When Age comes on!--
'The deepening dusk is where the dawn
Once glittered splendid, and the dew
In honey-drips, from red rose-lips
Was kissed away by me and you.--
And now across the frosty lawn
Black foot-prints trail, and Age comes on--
And Age comes on!
And biting wild-winds whistle through
Our tattered hopes--and Age comes on!
When Age comes on!--
O tide of raptures, long withdrawn,
Flow back in summer-floods, and fling
Here at our feet our childhood sweet,
And all the songs we used to sing! . . .
Old loves, old friends--all dead and gone--
Our old faith lost--and Age comes on--
And Age comes on!
Poor hearts! have we not anything
But longings left when Age comes on?
ENVOY.
Just as of old! The world rolls on and on;
The day dies into night--night into dawn--
Dawn into dusk--through centuries untold.--
Just as of old.
Time loiters not. The river ever flows,
Its brink or white with blossoms or with snows;
Its tide or warm with Spring or Winter cold:
Just as of old.
Lo! where is the beginning, where the end
Of living, loving, longing? Listen, friend!--
God answers with a silence of pure gold--
Just as of old.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Related quotes
Another Song to Sing (Second Draft)
When the night is long and dark and cold
And there's nobody around for you to hold,
Don't forget, whatever night may bring,
Tomorrow is another song to sing.
When the night is cold and there's nobody to hold,
When there's darkness all around you and within;
Remember there's a light at the end of every night,
And every day's another song to sing.
So try to carry on and make it through till dawn,
And listen for another song to sing.
When the clouds hang heavy and so grey
That you can't bear to face another day,
Just remember that, in spite of everything,
Every day's another song to sing.
When everything seems grey and you can't face the day,
When you just wish the world would go away;
Remember there's a spring, once winter's had its fling,
And every day's another song to sing.
When winter turns to spring, those sunny days will bring
Another brand new song for you to sing.
When your heart's been beaten black and blue
And it seems your dreams are never coming true,
Try and find something to keep believin' in,
And listen for another song to sing.
When your heart is bruised and there's nothing left to lose,
And life seems like a game you'll never win;
Remember there's a friend waiting just around the bend
With another song for you to sing.
Remember you've a friend with a song that's newly penned
Especially for you and me to sing.
Between the Dusk of a Summer Night
Between the dusk of a summer night
And the dawn of a summer day,
We caught at a mood as it passed in flight,
And we bade it stoop and stay.
And what with the dawn of night began
With the dusk of day was done;
For that is the way of woman and man,
When a hazard has made them one.
Arc upon arc, from shade to shine,
The World went thundering free;
And what was his errand but hers and mine --
The lords of him, I and she?
O, it's die we must, but it's live we can,
And the marvel of earth and sun
Is all for the joy of woman and man
And the longing that makes them one.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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A Winter Song (From, Lost Song Poems)
There's outside a winter's song
With frore and grayish earth,
We had the summer for so long
For what each day was worth;
I'll long for summer and spring
Each time the night gets cold,
When weather hollowly will sing
In winter so frosty and bold.
A flower so gracefully done
The winter's rose in my window,
I'll greet you gladly on and on
Cherish your pearl white afterglow;
I've often been in a moody down
When darker the short day comes,
Then I see frosty rose jewel crown
And know in the cold it blooms.
Winter romance and candle lights
Longing for green sweet earth,
Longing for clearings sky bright
And all what the day young's worth;
How can it touch the morning flame
The winter that's gray and dark,
Will not each color be there same
Without its golden morning spark.
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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Research on Cinderalla - after Shel Silverstein In search of Cinderalla
From dawn til dusk,
from land to land,
without too much ado,
I'd seek the perfect ankle,
From dawn til dusk
I'd stretch my hand
to virgin, husk, - not you! -
perceptions change, oh dear, they do!
perfection minds must rankle
In Search of Cinderella
From dusk to dawn,
From town to town,
Without a single clue,
I seek the tender, slender foot
To fit this crystal shoe.
From dusk to dawn,
I try it on
Each damsel that I meet.
And I still love her so, but oh,
I've started hating feet.
- Shel Silverstein
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Not To Be
THE rose said 'Let but this long rain be past,
And I shall feel my sweetness in the sun
And pour its fullness into life at last.'
But when the rain was done,
But when dawn sparkled through unclouded air,
She was not there.
The lark said 'Let but winter be away,
And blossoms come, and light, and I will soar,
And lose the earth, and be the voice of day.'
But when the snows were o'er,
But when spring broke in blueness overhead,
The lark was dead.
And myriad roses made the garden glow,
And skylarks carolled all the summer long—
What lack of birds to sing and flowers to blow?
Yet, ah, lost scent, lost song!
Poor empty rose, poor lark that never trilled!
Dead unfulfilled!
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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A Basket of Flowers
From Dawn to Dusk
DAWN
ON skies still and starlit
White lustres take hold,
And grey flushes scarlet,
And red flashes gold.
And sun-glories cover
The rose, shed above her,
Like lover and lover
They flame and unfold.
. . . . . . .
Still bloom in the garden
Green grass-plot, fresh lawn,
Though pasture lands harden
And drought fissures yawn.
While leaves not a few fall,
Let rose-leaves for you fall
Leaves pearl-strung with dew-fall,
And gold shot with dawn.
Does the grass-plot remember
The fall of your feet
In Autumn's red ember
When drought leagues with heat,
When the last of the roses
Despairingly closes
In the lull that reposes
Ere storm winds wax fleet ?
Love's melodies languish
In 'Chastelard's' strain,
And 'Abelard's' anguish
Is love's pleasant pain !
And 'Sappho' rehearses
Love's blessings and curses
In passionate verses
Again and again.
And I !—I have heard of
All these long ago,
Yet never one word of
Their song-lore I know ;
Not under my finger
In songs of the singer
Love's litanies linger,
Love's rhapsodies flow.
Fresh flowers in a basket—
An offering to you—
Though you did not ask it,
Unbidden I strew ;
With heat and drought striving
Some blossoms still living
May render thanksgiving
For dawn and for dew.
The garlands I gather,
The rhymes I string fast,
Are hurriedly rather
Then heedlessly cast.
Yon tree's shady awning
Is short'ning, and warning,
Far spent is the morning,
And I must ride fast.
Songs empty, yet airy,
I've striven to write,
For failure, dear Mary !
Forgive me—Good-night !
Songs and flowers may beset you,
I can only regret you,
While the soil where I met you
Recedes from my sight.
For the sake of past hours,
For the love of old times,
Take 'A Basket of Flowers,'
And a bundle of rhymes ;
Though all the bloom perish
E'en your hand can cherish,
While churlish and bearish
The verse-jingle chimes.
And Eastward by Nor'ward
Looms sadly my track,
And I must ride forward,
And still I look back,—
Look back—Ah, how vainly !
For while I see plainly,
My hands on the reins lie
Uncertain and slack.
The warm wind breathes strong breath,
The dust dims mine eye,
And I draw one long breath,
And stifle one sigh.
Green slopes softly shaded,
Have flitted and faded—
My dreams flit as they did—
Good-night !—and—Good-bye !
. . . . . . .
DUSK
Lost rose ! end my story !
Dead core and dry husk—
Departed thy glory
And tainted thy musk.
Night spreads her dark limbs on
The face of the dim sun,
So flame fades to crimson
And crimson to dusk.
poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
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Longing never ceases
One looks for dawn while at dusk
and for dusk when at dawn.
One longs for winter in summer
and for summer when in winter.
One begs for hunger in affluence
and the other for food in penury..
The one at peak is for privacy
and the other, down, for publicity.
Who is happy from womb to tomb?
28.12.2000, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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This Mighty Wanderer
Standing on a cliff overlooking the sea
I stare out at the restless waters below,
slowly moving in and out
with each incoming and receding tide.
Like a nomad ever seeking
a new place to rest its head.
Its colours always changing
under the rays of the sun,
wandering restlessly forever
from dawn to dusk,
dusk to dawn
in its never-ending travels
in this worldwide.
This mighty wanderer
only comes to shore
at the incoming tide.
17 September 2008
poem by David Harris
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Sunrise, Sunset
O Sun, When you rise,
It’s morning dawn.
When you set,
It’s evening dusk.
O Sun, Seeing your beauty lighting
Shining on landscape from dawn
Shining on seascape from dusk
It comes from dawn to dusk.
O Sun, rise from East
O Sun, set to West
From East to West,
Celestial light comes and go,
Seasons come and go.
Here come four seasons
North to South, East to West
From Spring comes Autumn,
From Summer comes Winter.
O Sun, From rising East
To setting West
O Moon, Come rising East
To setting West
Cycle never end,
It’s endless cycle,
Seeing sunset every dusk,
Seeing sunrise every dawn.
Making us pondering..
Make us wondering
Where, When will be next..
Sunrise, sunset..
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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The Muse And The Poet
The Muse said, Let us sing a little song
Wherein no hint of wrong,
No echo of the great world need, or pain,
Shall mar the strain.
Lock fast the swinging portal of thy heart;
Keep sympathy apart.
Sing of the sunset, of the dawn, the sea;
Of any thing or nothing, so there be
No purpose to thy art.
Yea, let us make, art for Art's sake.
And sing no more unto the hearts of men,
But for the critic's pen.
With songs that are but words, sweet sounding words,
Like joyous jargon of the birds.
Tune now thy lyre, O Poet, and sing on.
Sing of
THE DAWN
The Virgin Night, all languorous with dreams
Of her belovèd Darkness, rose in fear,
Feeling the presence of another near.
Outside her curtained casement shone the gleams
Of burning orbs; and modestly she hid
Her brow and bosom with her dusky hair.
When lo! the bold intruder lurking there
Leaped through the fragile lattice, all unbid,
And half unveiled her. Then the swooning Night
Fell pale and dead, while yet her soul was white
Before that lawless Ravisher, the Light.
The Muse said, Poet, nay; thou hast not caught
My meaning. For there lurks a thought
Back of thy song.
In art, all thought is wrong.
Re-string thy lyre; and let the echoes bound
To nothing but sweet sound.
Strike now the chords
And sing of
WORDS
One day sweet Ladye Language gave to me
A little golden key.
I sat me down beside her jewel box
And turned its locks.
And oh, the wealth that lay there in my sight.
Great solitaires of words, so bright, so bright;
Words that no use can commonize; like God,
And Truth, and Love; and words of sapphire blue;
And amber words; with sunshine dripping through;
And words of that strange hue
A pearl reveals upon a wanton's hand.
Again the Muse:
Thou dost not understand;
A thought within thy song is lingering yet.
Sing but of words; all else forget, forget.
Nor let thy words convey one thought to men.
Try once again.
Down through the dusk and dew there fell a word;
Down through the dew and dusk.
And all the garments of the air it stirred
Smelled sweet as musk;
And all the little waves of air it kissed
Turned gold and amethyst.
There in the dew and dusk a heart it found;
There in the dusk and dew
The sodden silence changed to fragrant sound;
And all the world seemed new.
Upon the path that little word had trod,
There shone the smile of God.
The Muse said, Drop thy lyre.
I tire, I tire.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The River and the Hill
And they shook their sweetness out in their sleep
On the brink of that beautiful stream,
But it wandered along with a wearisome song
Like a lover that walks in a dream:
So the roses blew
When the winds went through,
In the moonlight so white and still;
But the river it beat
All night at the feet
Of a cold and flinty hill -
Of a hard and senseless hill!
I said, "We have often showered our loves
Upon something as dry as the dust;
And the faith that is crost, and the hearts that are lost -
Oh! how can we wittingly trust?
Like the stream which flows,
And wails as it goes.
Through the moonlight so white and still,
To beat and to beat
All night at the feet
Of a cold and flinty hill -
Of a hard and senseless hill?
"River, I stay where the sweet roses blow,
And drink of their pleasant perfumes!
Oh, why do you moan, in this wide world alone,
When so much affection here blooms?
The winds wax faint,
And the moon like a saint
Glides over the woodlands so white and still!
But you beat and you beat
All night at the feet
Of that cold and flinty hill -
Of that hard and senseless hill!"
poem by Henry Kendall
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Renunciation
ROSE of the desert of my heart,
Moon of the night that is my soul,
Thou can'st not know how sweet thou art,
Nor what wild tides thy beams control.
For all thy heart a garden is,
Thy soul is like a dawn of May.
And garden and dawn might both be his,
Who from them both must turn away.
Oh, garden of the Spring's delight!
Oh, dewy dawn of perfect noon!
I will not pluck thy roses white
Or warm thy May-time into June.
I can but bless thee, moon and rose,
And journey far and very far
To where the night no moonbeam shows,
To where no happy roses are!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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All Souls
I
A THIN moon faints in the sky o'erhead,
And dumb in the churchyard lie the dead.
Walk we not, Sweet, by garden ways,
Where the late rose hangs and the phlox delays,
But forth of the gate and down the road,
Past the church and the yews, to their dim abode.
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.
II
Fear not that sound like wind in the trees:
It is only their call that comes on the breeze;
Fear not the shudder that seems to pass:
It is only the tread of their feet on the grass;
Fear not the drip of the bough as you stoop:
It is only the touch of their hands that grope -
For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
When the dead can yearn and the dead can smite.
III
And where should a man bring his sweet to woo
But here, where such hundreds were lovers too?
Where lie the dead lips that thirst to kiss,
The empty hands that their fellows miss,
Where the maid and her lover, from sere to green,
Sleep bed by bed, with the worm between?
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.
IV
And now that they rise and walk in the cold,
Let us warm their blood and give youth to the old.
Let them see us and hear us, and say: 'Ah, thus
In the prime of the year it went with us!'
Till their lips drawn close, and so long unkist,
Forget they are mist that mingles with mist!
For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
When the dead can burn and the dead can smite.
V
Till they say, as they hear us - poor dead, poor dead! -
'Just an hour of this, and our age-long bed -
Just a thrill of the old remembered pains
To kindle a flame in our frozen veins,
Just a touch, and a sight, and a floating apart,
As the chill of dawn strikes each phantom heart -
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear, and the dead have sight.'
VI
And where should the living feel alive
But here in this wan white humming hive,
As the moon wastes down, and the dawn turns cold,
And one by one they creep back to the fold?
And where should a man hold his mate and say:
'One more, one more, ere we go their way'?
For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
When the living can learn by the churchyard light.
VII
And how should we break faith who have seen
Those dead lips plight with the mist between,
And how forget, who have seen how soon
They lie thus chambered and cold to the moon?
How scorn, how hate, how strive, we too,
Who must do so soon as those others do?
For it's All Souls' night, and break of the day,
And behold, with the light the dead are away. . . .
poem by Edith Wharton
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In Search Of Cinderella
From dusk to dawn,
From town to town,
Without a single clue,
I seek the tender, slender foot
To fit this crystal shoe.
From dusk to dawn,
I try it on
Each damsel that I meet.
And I still love her so, but oh,
I've started hating feet.
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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No Time Like The Old Time
THERE is no time like the old time, when you and I were young,
When the buds of April blossomed, and the birds of spring-time sung!
The garden's brightest glories by summer suns are nursed,
But oh, the sweet, sweet violets, the flowers that opened first!
There is no place like the old place, where you and I were born,
Where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of the morn
From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the clinging arms that
bore,
Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that will look on us no more!
There is no friend like the old friend, who has shared our morning days,
No greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise
Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold;
But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold.
There is no love like the old love, that we courted in our pride;
Though our leaves are falling, falling, and we're fading side by side,
There are blossoms all around us with the colors of our dawn,
And we live in borrowed sunshine when the day-star is withdrawn.
There are no times like the old times,--they shall never be forgot!
There is no place like the old place,--keep green the dear old spot!
There are no friends like our old friends,--may Heaven prolong their
lives
There are no loves like our old loves,--God bless our loving wives!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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The Rill From The Foot Of The Mountain
The rill from the foot of the mountain that joins the river to the sea
It has babbled on downhill forever by hedgerows in the high
Country
It has witnessed the birth and death of millions of Seasons even before the first Human was born
In the upland wood where it flows through the birds sing at dawn of the morn.
The rill it is truly immortal something that will live forever more
Forever 'twill flow to the river that flows to the great ocean shore
To it there is not a time limit it is as old as father time
It has inspired the long dead poets to glorify it in their rhyme.
The rill from the foot of the mountain towards the river ripples along
And sometimes above it's quiet babble the dippers can be heard in song
The dark brown white breasted waterbirds of Human kind they do seem shy
By the water-way they were born and in the water-way they will die.
The rill from the foot of the mountain downhill to the big river flow
The ancestors of the upland farmers who lived by it centuries ago
In the old Village graveyard it flows by with the long departed they lay
As on for to join the big river it babbles on it's downhill way.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Commingle of seasons and love
As i ventured back to love,
A new dawn and a whole new world through my eyes seen,
I felt the tranquil beauty of nature,
I 'am in love again,
Nature seems to show likeness,
The passerine birds sings in joy,
Daffodils and lilies bloomers, dazzled and waved,
The sun shone her warmth on me,
Its spring time,
I ventured to explore the beauty of nature,
The sun rosed up and fell again,
The birds sang and was silent,
The world sleeps,
The stars displayed glitterness,
The winds blew strong and disappeared,
The moon's always wane,
The greeness tends to fade,
The leaves feel off the trees,
I ventured through all these in love with her and nature,
Everywhere i look around is white,
The sun's shinning weak,
Its all white and cold in here,
Spring's gone, summer's gone, autumn's gone,
Winter is here to stay,
Silence, quietness and a gentle breeze,
In the cold light of the day i am,
The ponds freezes and solidifies,
Love sings wintry songs,
With a cold shoulder she tapped goodbye,
I breath the dewy air,
As dewdrops fell on me,
I am frosty, benumbed,
The air in me wreak coldness,
And so is the moment without her,
As i stand alone,
Flowers died, birds don't nests,
The living are indoors,
I am the only one outside,
Lost in wilderness,
In the fields of cold winter,
Mourning the love lost.
poem by Sukkum Chang
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At Her Door
OPEN! Open! Open!
I am here at your door outside;
The sea's blue tide flows speedily,
And ebbs a thin red tide.'
The woman rose from her warm white bed,
Threw back her hair and smiled;
The ears of scorn heard the words of love,
And the wind and the words were wild.
'Wake! Awake! Awake!
And hearken the woe outside;
The moon is hid in cloudiness;
Calleth and calleth the tide.'
The woman stood in the silence still
As a thing men carve from stone.
Her eyes burned largely in the dark,
And the smile, like a stain, stayed on.
'Listen! Listen! Listen!
Hear you the rain to-night?
A warm dark rain is falling too,
And I grow ghostly-white.'
The woman took three steps and bowed;
The smile waned from her lip;
She heard the dripping of the rain
And a soft thick other drip.
'Open! Open! Open!
I die in the dark alone.
My voice goes up in weariness
Against your heart of stone.'
The moon to a cloud-cleft stealing
Gazed down on the yearning tide;
The woman opened the streaming door
And stood in the rain outside.
Silence! Stillness! She whispers,
'Ah, Love, that death should be!'
He sighed, 'Your lips are loveliness!'
And she sobbed, 'Woe is me!'
The woman pressed his dead white face
With her face as deadly white:
The moon drew in behind a cloud,
And the tide moaned through the night.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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In Winter's Arms
Winter holds me with his arms of icy white,
and kissed my breath with frost upon the pane.
Subdued by touch of winter's frigid hand,
I pray for spring to find me once again.
O'wind, you whistle to the winter's tune.
Your melody is heard 'pon day and night,
but one day spring will come to rescue me,
and wisk away your song of winter's blight.
O'tree, you're frozen in the winter's dream.
Your leaves have left you 'neath a moon of white,
but when my prayers are answered 'pon spring's dawn,
you'll thaw beneath its sun with warm delight.
O'field, your harvest has been reaped and spent ~
and winter blankets you 'neath snowy mounds.
Yet one day soon in springtime's rising mist
you'll feel the greening of your earth rebound.
Winter holds me with his arms of icy white,
and kissed my breath with frost upon the pane ~
but deep within I somehow always know,
that spring will come and find me once again.
poem by Hazelmarie Elliott
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Such A Night
(words & music by lincoln chase)
It was a night oo-oo what a night
It was it really was such a night
The moon was bright oh how so bright
It was it really was such a night
The night was alight with stars above
Oo-oo when she kissed me
I had to fall in love
Oh it was a kiss oo-oo what a kiss
It was it really was such a kiss
Oh how she could kiss oh what a kiss
It was it really was such a kiss
Just the thought of her lips
Sets me afire
I reminisce and Im filled with desire
But Id gave my heart to her in sweet surrender
How well I remember, Ill always remember
Oh, what a night oo-oo what a night
It was it really was such a night
Came the dawn and my heart and her love
And the night was gone
But Ill never forget the kiss
The kiss in the moonlight
Oo-oo such a kiss, such a night
It was a night oo-oo what a night
It was it really was such a night
Came the dawn and my heart and her love
And the night was gone
But Ill never forget the kiss
The kiss in the moonlight
How well I remember, Ill always remember
That night oo-oo what a night
It was it really was such a night
When we kissed I had to fall in love
But Id gave my heart to her in sweet surrender
How well I remember, Ill always remember
Oh that night oo-oo what a night
It was it really was such a night
When we kissed I had to fall in love
Well shes gone, gone, gone
Yes shes gone, gone, gone
Came the dawn, dawn, dawn
And my love was gone
But before that dawn
Yes before that dawn and before that dawn
Oo-oo, oo-oo, oo-oo, oo-oo, oo-oo
Such a night
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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