En.Citatepedia^®.ro

When June Is Here

When June is here--what art have we to sing
The whiteness of the lilies midst the green
Of noon-tranced lawns? Or flash of roses seen
Like redbirds' wings? Or earliest ripening
Prince-Harvest apples, where the cloyed bees cling
Round winey juices oozing down between
The peckings of the robin, while we lean
In under-grasses, lost in marveling.
Or the cool term of morning, and the stir
Of odorous breaths from wood and meadow walks,
The bobwhite's liquid yodel, and the whir
Of sudden flight; and, where the milkmaid talks
Across the bars, on tilted barley-stalks
The dewdrops' glint in webs of gossamer.

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Fifteen Acres

I
I cling and swing
On a branch, or sing
Through the cool, clear hush of Morning, O!
Or fling my wing
On the air, and bring
To sleepier birds a warning, O!
That the night's in flight,
And the sun's in sight,
And the dew is the grass adorning, O!
And the green leaves swing
As I sing, sing, sing,
Up by the river,
Down the dell,
To the little wee nest,
Where the big tree fell,
So early in the morning, O!

II
I flit and twit
In the sun for a bit
When his light so bright is shining, O!
Or sit and fit
My plumes, or knit
Straw plaits for the nest's nice lining, O!
And she with glee
Shows unto me
Underneath her wings reclining, O!

And I sing that Peg
Has an egg, egg, egg,
Up by the oat-field,
Round by the mill,
Past the meadow,
Down the hill,
So early in the morning, O!

III
I stoop and swoop
On the air, or loop
Through the trees, and then go soaring, O!
To group with a troop
On the gusty poop
While the wind behind is roaring, O!
I skim and swim
By a cloud's red rim
And up to the azure flooring, O!
And my wide wings drip
As I slip, slip, slip,
Down through the rain-drops,
Back where Peg
Broods in the nest
On the little white egg,
So early in the morning, O!

poem by James Stephens
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Apples

One thing
we all have
in common is
we're ripening
for the harvest.

Donald Trump
and Pee-wee Herman,
Bill Gates
and Eliot Spitzer,
Warren Buffett
and Anthony Weiner

are different
in many respects
but like the rest of us,
they, too, are ripening
for the harvest.

They hang with us
from the same branch,
apples, big and small,
ripening in summer,
withering in fall,
waiting for winter
to conduct its harvest.

Some of us hang
from that branch
and wonder
what in the name
of God is next.
Others just hang.
They appear
not to care

poem by Donal Mahoney
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Redbirds

Redbirds, redbirds,
Long and long ago,
What a honey-call you had
In hills I used to know;

Redbud, buckberry,
Wild plum-tree
And proud river sweeping
Southward to the sea,

Brown and gold in the sun
Sparkling far below,
Trailing stately round her bluffs
Where the poplars grow --

Redbirds, redbirds,
Are you singing still
As you sang one May day
On Saxton's Hill?

poem by Sara Teasdale
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Mid-March

It is too early for white boughs, too late
For snows. From out the hedge the wind lets fall
A few last flakes, ragged and delicate.
Down the stripped roads the maples start their small,
Soft, ’wildering fires. Stained are the meadow stalks
A rich and deepening red. The willow tree
Is woolly. In deserted garden-walks
The lean bush crouching hints old royalty,
Feels some June stir in the sharp air and knows
Soon ’twill leap up and show the world a rose.

The days go out with shouting; nights are loud;
Wild, warring shapes the wood lifts in the cold;
The moon’s a sword of keen, barbaric gold,
Plunged to the hilt into a pitch black cloud.

poem by Lizette Woodworth Reese
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The Lost Embassy

THE lilies lean to the white, white rose,
The sweet limes send to the blossomed trees,
Soft kisses borne by the golden bees--
And all the world is alive, awake,
And glad to the heart for the summer's sake.

From her tower window the Princess leant,
Where the white light butterflies came and went;
She dropped soft kisses by twos and threes:
'White butterflies mine, will you carry these
To my Prince in prison? for they, who knows,
May break the spell that has held him close
And wake him and win him to stand up free
And laugh--in the sun--with me!'

White lilies, gold in the golden sun,
White Princess, gold in your golden gown--
Far off lies the sad, enchanted town!
Bright wings, light wings, white wings that tire,
Though they carry the flower of the heart's desire--
Will you trust to these, too white, too slight
To bring back the fruit of heart's delight?

All round and about the spell-bound town
The ways are dusty, the woods are brown;
There are no green coverts, no welcoming flowers
For little weary butterfly wings,
No dew, no lilies, no glad live things.
'Neath the sky of steel and the brazen sun
White wings, kiss-laden, dropped one by one:
By twos and threes they dropped by the way,
And only one reached the grim, gray tower
Where, witched from his kingdom, the poor Prince lay--
One poor tired butterfly, smirched and gray
With the dust of the town and the weary way,
And it lit on the Prince's hand and died.
'Bright wings, light wings, white wings,' he cried
'You, only you, might have lived and borne
My prayer to my love in her tower forlorn,
And brought back the kiss that could set me free--
She might have broken the spell that lies
On my foolish heart and my foolish eyes--
But no live butterflies come my way!'

The winds are cold and the skies are gray,
And all the lilies died yesterday;
The Princess leans from her steel-wrought tower
To watch for her butterflies hour by hour.
Poor little Princess, you watch in vain!
Butterflies die where the green wood browns,
And kisses sent to enchanted towns
Never come home again.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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Garden Fantasy

gossamer wings of dragonflies
platinum petals of tanzanite tulips
sapphire daisies, ruby roses,
million flowers of mandarin garnets
red silk wings of butterflies
diamond-studded lilies of the valley
peridot grasses alexandrite dews
garnet violets aquamarine carnations
quarts crocus chrysoberyl chrysanthemums
opal orchids coral daffodils

metallic fantasies
of an imaginary garden
eventually your heart is missing

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Morning Peace

THE sudden sunbeams slant between the trees
Like solid bars of silver. moonlight kissed,
And strike the supine shadows where they rest
Stretched sleeping; while a timid, new-born Breeze
Stirs through the grasses, petulant—her eyes
Half-blinded by the clinging scarves of mist:
Her robes, that tangled through the grasses twist,
Weave as she moves sweet whispered melodies.
O may it be a morn like this, when slow
From a dark world beneath my soul shall go
Through the wet grasses of a purple plain,
Still stretching broader in the cool, grey glow
Of morning twllight: then my soul shall know
That life and love are lost—and found again!

poem by Arthur Henry Adams
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Red, Red Gold

Red, red gold, a kingdom's ransom, child,
To weave thy yellow hair she bade them spin.
At early dawn the gossamer spiders toiled,
And wove the sunrise in.

She took the treasures of the deep blue noon,
She took the clear eyes of the morning star,
The pale--faced lilies of a seven--days moon,
The dust of Phoebus' car.

She painted thee with dewdrops from the flowers,
Stained with their petals, hyacinth and rose,
And violets all wet with April showers
And snowdrops from the snows.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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I Like To Get It Before It's Gone

In the midst of the budding of a birthing Spring.
I stood at the edge of a forest green.
And sought a path to walk through,
When Summer made it.

And the bees would hum,
As the birds did sing.
While I did this one on one,
With Mother Nature doing her 'thing'.

In the midst of the budding of a birthing Spring.
I stood at the edge of a forest green.
And wanted these days to happen.

I love to walk through the park at dawn.
Just to see what's going on.
And breathing clean fresh air everywhere.

I like to get it before it's gone.
Before the noon is born.
When the noises in the air aren't there!

And the bees would hum,
As the birds did sing.
While I did this one on one,
With Mother Nature doing her 'thing'.
In the midst of the budding of a birthing Spring.

I love to walk through the park at dawn.
Just to see what's going on.
And breathing clean fresh air everywhere.

I like to get it before it's gone.
Before the noon is born.
When the noises in the air aren't there!
Or anywhere.
Peace and I,
Choose to be!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Mule Skinner Blues

Well good morning captain
Good morning to you sir
Hey hey yeah
Do you need another mule skinner
Down on your new mud run
Hey hey yeah
Yodel-a-ee-he-he
He-he-he-he-he-he
Well Im a lady mule skinner
From down old tennessee way
Hey hey I come from tennessee
I can make any mule listen
Or I wont accept your pay
Hey hey I wont take your pay
Yodel-a-ee-he-he
He-he-he-he-he-he
Well hey hey little waterboy
Wont you bring your water round
Hey hey
If you dont like your job
Well you can throw your bucket down
Throw it down boy, throw it down
Yodel-a-ee-he-he
He-he-he-he-he-he
Well Ive been working down in georgia
At a greasy spoon caf?
Hey that lovely joint
Just to let a no good man
Call every cent of my pay
Hey hey and Im sick of it
And wanna be a mule skinner
Yodel-a-ee-he-he
He-he-he-he-he-he
Yodel-a-ee-he-he
He-he-he-he-he-he
Mule skinner blues

song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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5. A Happy Ending

Champagne party popping corks
People meeting having talks
Moonlight shining having walks
On her dance card names she chalks

Take the floor with people dancing
Many beaus their arms are chancing
Hoping for some fine romancing
Ladies over masks are glancing

Fancy ball-gown’s what a sight
Swirling round throughout the night
Twelve o’clock strikes one take’s flight
From the prince as change she might

Through the garden as she rushes
Lost a slipper by some bushes
Cannot stop so onward rushes
Breathing heavy face now flushes

Prince goes searching far and wide
For slippers foot to fit inside
Cinderella’s foot he tried
And she became the prince’s bride

poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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The Point Of View: II

I

In the wood of lost causes, the valley of tears,
Old hopes, like dead leaves, choke the difficult way;
Dark pinions fold dank round the soul, and it hears:
'It is night, it is night, it has never been day;
Thou hast dreamed of the day, of the rose of delight;
It was always dead leaves and the heart of the night.
Drink deep then, and rest, O thou foolish wayfarer,
For night, like a chalice, holds sleep in her hands.'

II

Then you drain the dark cup, and, half-drugged as you lie
In the arms of despair that is masked as delight,
You thrill to the rush of white wings, and you hear:
'It is day, it is day, it has never been night!
Thou hast dreamed of the night and the wood of lost leaves;
It was always noon, June, and red roses in sheaves,
Unlock the blind lids, and behold the light-bearer
Who holds, like a monstrance, the sun in his hands.'

poem by Edith Nesbit
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Fly To Me Angel

Oh my angel
Sweet sweet angel
Come to me swiftly
Its night so still
The dawn bus come swiftly
I've been gone so long
Your face is so lovely
Its makes my faith strong
My hands are unsteady
I'm so far from home
Just tell me, angel,
I'm never alone
...
(i write them and then i forget them)
...(oh yeah)
Lay with me angel
Speak not a word
Your body is so slender
Like the wings of a bird
Fly from me angel
You see a dawn's a cuup (??)
I'll be with you angel
On the wings of a song
Yodel--ohh--oie
Yodel--ohh--oie--de--you
Yodel--ohh--oie--de--you--ahh
Yodel--ohh--tii-oie--de--you--ahh
Ahhhh ooooo

song performed by by Jewel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Pixy People

It was just a very
Merry fairy dream!--
All the woods were airy
With the gloom and gleam;
Crickets in the clover
Clattered clear and strong,
And the bees droned over
Their old honey-song.

In the mossy passes,
Saucy grasshoppers
Leapt about the grasses
And the thistle-burs;
And the whispered chuckle
Of the katydid
Shook the honeysuckle
Blossoms where he hid.

Through the breezy mazes
Of the lazy June,
Drowsy with the hazes
Of the dreamy noon,
Little Pixy people
Winged above the walk,
Pouring from the steeple
Of a mullein-stalk.

One--a gallant fellow--
Evidently King,--
Wore a plume of yellow
In a jewelled ring
On a pansy bonnet,
Gold and white and blue,
With the dew still on it,
And the fragrance, too.

One--a dainty lady,--
Evidently Queen,--
Wore a gown of shady
Moonshine and green,
With a lace of gleaming
Starlight that sent
All the dewdrops dreaming
Everywhere she went.

One wore a waistcoat
Of roseleaves, out and in,
And one wore a faced-coat
Of tiger-lily-skin;
And one wore a neat coat
Of palest galingale;
And one a tiny street-coat,
And one a swallow-tail.

And Ho! sang the King of them,
And Hey! sang the Queen;
And round and round the ring of them
Went dancing o'er the green;
And Hey! sang the Queen of them,
And Ho! sang the King--
And all that I had seen of them
--Wasn't anything!

It was just a very
Merry fairy dream!--
All the woods were airy
With the gloom and gleam;
Crickets in the clover
Clattered clear and strong,
And the bees droned over
Their old honey-song!

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Summons

Some day, when the golden glory
Of June is over the earth,
And the birds are singing together
In a wild, mad strain of mirth;
When the skies are as clear and cloudless
As the skies in June can be,
I would like to have the summons
Sent down from God to me.

Some glowing, golden morning
In the heart of the summer time,
As I stand in the perfect vigour
And strength of my youth's glad prime;
When my heart is light and happy,
And the word seems to bright to me,
I would like to dropp from this earth life,
As a green leaf drops from a tree.

I would not wait for the furrows -
For the faded eyes and hair;
But pass out swift and sudden,
Ere I grow heart-sick with care;
I would break some morn in my singing -
Or fall in my springing walk
As a full-blown flower will sometimes
Drop, all a-bloom, from the stalk.

I think the leaf would sooner
Be the first to break away,
Than to hang alone in the orchard
In the bleak November day.
And I think the fate of the flower
That falls in the midst of bloom
Is sweeter than if it lingered
To die in the autumn's gloom.

And so, in my youth's glad morning,
While the summer walks abroad,
I would like to hear the summons,
That must come, sometime, from God.
I would pass from the earth's perfection
To the endless June above:
From the fullness of living and loving,
To the noon of Immortal Love.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Marriage Morning

Light, so low upon earth,
You send a flash to the sun.
Here is the golden close of love,
All my wooing is done.
Oh, the woods and the meadows,
Woods where we hid from the wet,
Stiles where we stay'd to be kind,
Meadows in which we met!

Light, so low in the vale
You flash and lighten afar,
For this is the golden morning of love,
And you are his morning start.
Flash, I am coming, I come,
By meadow and stile and wood,
Oh, lighten into my eyes and heart,
Into my heart and my blood!

Heart, are you great enough
For a love that never tires?
O' heart, are you great enough for love?
I have heard of thorns and briers,
Over the meadow and stiles,
Over the world to the end of it
Flash for a million miles.

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Stop The Train (feat. Peter Tosh)

Stir it up little darling, stir it up
Come on baby come on and stir it up little darling, stir it up
It's been a long long time since I've got you on my mind
And now you are here
I say it's so clear
To see what we can do, honey, just me and you
Come on and stir it up, little darling, stir it up
Come on baby come on and stir it up little darling, stir it up
I'll push the wood, I'll blaze your fire
Then I'll satisfy your heart's desire
Said I'll stir it up, yeah, ev'ry minute, yeah
All you got to do is keep it in, baby
And stir it up, little darling, stir it up
Come on and stir it up, oh, little darling, stir it up, yeah
Oh, will you quench me while I'm thirsty?
Come and cool me down when I'm hot?
Your recipe, darling, is so tasty
And you sure can stir your pot
So stir it up, little darling, stir it up
Come on and stir it up, oh, little darling, stir it up
Come on and stir it up, oh, little darling, stir it up

song performed by by Bob Marley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Midsummer Dream

I dreamed of Paradise Garden;
sunlight sliding down
from an infinite sky
through cedar trees to emerald lawns;
oriental poppies six feet high,
Indian butterflies gliding by
through multilayered shades of blue.
Olympian Apollo’s statue
holds a fountain in his hands,
which swirls and mists, sparkles and cools,
cascading down to deep green pools,
where red carp flash on silver sands.

Gazing round I find,
beyond the mirror of my mind,
past flowering trees and shrubberies,
how all around
this fertile ground
the garden is confined
within a fence of iron bars,
which stretches high
to arch across and make a canopy
between me and the sky.
The falcons, hawks and eagles
which circle round are kept at bay
and cannot swoop to seize as prey
the song birds that sing here all day.

Beyond the bars, a crawling multitude
swarms to and fro insatiably
but cannot find its way
into my garden solitude.

Heavens! I thought, the truth is clear to me!
That restless swarming world
is a prison shut in by iron bars.
Only I, in my garden, am completely free!

poem by Brian Taylor
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A Song Of Long Ago

A song of Long Ago:
Sing it lightly--sing it low--
Sing it softly--like the lisping of the lips we used to know
When our baby-laughter spilled
From the glad hearts ever filled
With music blithe as robin ever trilled!

Let the fragrant summer-breeze,
And the leaves of locust-trees,
And the apple-buds and blossoms, and the wings of honey-bees,
All palpitate with glee,
Till the happy harmony
Brings back each childish joy to you and me.

Let the eyes of fancy turn
Where the tumbled pippins burn
Like embers in the orchard's lap of tangled grass and fern,--
There let the old path wind
In and out and on behind
The cider-press that chuckles as we grind.

Blend in the song the moan
Of the dove that grieves alone,
And the wild whir of the locust, and the bumble's drowsy drone;
And the low of cows that call
Through the pasture-bars when all
The landscape fades away at evenfall.

Then, far away and clear,
Through the dusky atmosphere,
Let the wailing of the kildee be the only sound we hear:
O sad and sweet and low
As the memory may know
Is the glad-pathetic song of Long Ago!

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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August

THERE WERE four apples on the bough,
Half gold half red, that one might know
The blood was ripe inside the core;
The colour of the leaves was more
Like stems of yellow corn that grow
Through all the gold June meadow’s floor.

The warm smell of the fruit was good
To feed on, and the split green wood,
With all its bearded lips and stains
Of mosses in the cloven veins,
Most pleasant, if one lay or stood
In sunshine or in happy rains.

There were four apples on the tree,
Red stained through gold, that all might see
The sun went warm from core to rind;
The green leaves made the summer blind
In that soft place they kept for me
With golden apples shut behind.

The leaves caught gold across the sun,
And where the bluest air begun,
Thirsted for song to help the heat;
As I to feel my lady’s feet
Draw close before the day were done;
Both lips grew dry with dreams of it.

In the mute August afternoon
They trembled to some undertune
Of music in the silver air;
Great pleasure was it to be there
Till green turned duskier and the moon
Coloured the corn-sheaves like gold hair.

That August time it was delight
To watch the red moons wane to white
’Twixt grey seamed stems of apple-trees;
A sense of heavy harmonies
Grew on the growth of patient night,
More sweet than shapen music is.

But some three hours before the moon
The air, still eager from the noon,
Flagged after heat, not wholly dead;
Against the stem I leant my head;
The colour soothed me like a tune,
Green leaves all round the gold and red.

I lay there till the warm smell grew
More sharp, when flecks of yellow dew
Between the round ripe leaves had blurred
The rind with stain and wet; I heard
A wind that blew and breathed and blew,
Too weak to alter its one word.

The wet leaves next the gentle fruit
Felt smoother, and the brown tree-root
Felt the mould warmer: I too felt
(As water feels the slow gold melt
Right through it when the day burns mute)
The peace of time wherein love dwelt.

There were four apples on the tree,
Gold stained on red that all might see
The sweet blood filled them to the core:
The colour of her hair is more
Like stems of fair faint gold, that be
Mown from the harvest’s middle floor.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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