Related quotes: A BUSY town mid Britain's...

A Town

A BUSY town mid Britain's isle,
Behold in fancy's eye ;
With tower, and spire, and civic pile,
Beneath a summer sky :

And orchard, garden, field, and park,
And grove, and sunny wall ;
And ranging buildings, light and dark,
As evening shadows fall.

Then listen to the ceaseless din
Of hammer, saw, and crane ;
And traffic passing out and in,
From alley, street, and lane.

The sound, without a pause between,
Of foot, and wheel, and hoof ;
The manufacture's loud machine
From yonder lengthened roof.

And children at their evening sports,
Parading to and fro ;
Assembled in the quiet courts
Of yonder cottage row.

Gay streets display their shining wares
To every roving eye,
As eager in their own affairs,
The busy tribes go by.

And ah ! what varied forms of woe,
What hope and fear are found ;
What passions rise, what scandals grow,
Within this narrow bound !

To pass the peaceful dwellings by,
No stranger eye might guess
Those scenes of joy and agony,
Of discord and distress.

Pain writhes within those stately walls ;
Here pallid want hath been ;
That casement where the curtain falls
Shows death has entered in.

The dwelling ranging next to this,
A youthful group displays ;
Elate they seem with present bliss,
And hope of distant days.

There at her chamber-window high,
A lonely maiden sits ;
Its casement fronts the western sky
And balmy air admits :

And while her thoughts have wandered far
From all she hears and sees,
She gazes on the evening star
That twinkles through the trees.

Is it to watch the setting sun
She does that seat prefer ?--
Alas ! the maiden thinks of one
Who never thinks of her.

But lively is the street below,
And ceaseless is the hum,
As some intent on pleasure go,
On schemes of profit some.

Now widening seems the stream to be,
As evening stretches o'er ;
Plebeian tribes from toil set free
Pour forth from every door.

A school, arranged in order due,
(Before the sun goes down)
Lady and lady, two and two,
Comes winding through the town.

And what drives up to yonder door
The gaping crowd among ?
A wedding train of chaises four,
And all the bells are rung.

The laden waggon tinkles by,
The post is going out,
The lights are lit, the coaches ply
To tavern, ball, and rout.

Thus closed that merry summer's day ;
And would you ask me how
You might the busy scene survey,
And see those faces now ?--

Then hither turn--yon waving grass
And mouldering stones will show ;
For these transactions came to pass
A hundred years ago.

poem by Jane Taylor
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Related quotes

The Tower

One, from his high bright window in a tower,
Leans out, as evening falls,
And sees the advancing curtain of the shower
Splashing its silver on roofs and walls:
Sees how, swift as a shadow, it crosses the city,
And murmurs beyond far walls to the sea,
Leaving a glimmer of water in the dark canyons,
And silver falling from eave and tree.

One, from his high bright window, looking down,
Peers like a dreamer over the rain-bright town,
And thinks its towers are like a dream.
The western windows flame in the sun's last flare,
Pale roofs begin to gleam.

Looking down from a window high in a wall
He sees us all;
Lifting our pallid faces towards the rain,
Searching the sky, and going our ways again,
Standing in doorways, waiting under the trees . . .
There, in the high bright window he dreams, and sees
What we are blind to,-we who mass and crowd
From wall to wall in the darkening of a cloud.

The gulls drift slowly above the city of towers,
Over the roofs to the darkening sea they fly;
Night falls swiftly on an evening of rain.
The yellow lamps wink one by one again.
The towers reach higher and blacker against the sky.

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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The House Of Dust: Part 01: 02: One, from his high bright window in a tower

Looking down from a window high in a wall
He sees us all;
Lifting our pallid faces towards the rain,
Searching the sky, and going our ways again,
Standing in doorways, waiting under the trees . . .
There, in the high bright window he dreams, and sees
What we are blind to,—we who mass and crowd
From wall to wall in the darkening of a cloud.

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Tuesday Evening

AN EVENING
AFTER MONDAY

IS ALDO KRASS'
FAVORITE EVENING

IT IS TUESDAY
EVENING AND
IT IS NOT A BUSY
EVENING AND

ALDO LIKES IT
TO BE NOT
A BUSY EVENING

WITH HIS JULIET
AFTER WINTER
AND SPRING

IT WILL BE SUMMER
ON A TUESDAY
EVENING AND

IT WILL BE A LOVELY
EVENING
ALONE PERHAPS

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Station Master

In the dawns early light from a long and sleepless night
She returned again this morning from her long and restless flight
And her red hollow eyes did not show her much surprise
As she lay right down beside me like she never said goodbye
Please help me stationmaster, is the evening train on time
The wells run dry up yonder theres another down the line
It was all I could bear just to watch her lying there
Disowned and ragged princess with the sun locked in her hair
So cold, so frail with her mind locked in a jail
A victim of confusion, never knowing she could fail
Please help me stationmaster, is the evening train on time
The wells run dry up yonder theres another down the line
So I rocked her to sleep and I got up on my feet
And the day was filled with sunshine as I gazed across the street
And the door seemed to say over here step this way
The station is for travelers even you must ride someday
Please help me stationmaster, is the evening train on time
The wells run dry up yonder theres another down the line
Please help be stationmaster, can I stay for just awhile
Forgive me if Im weary I aint have much - much time to smile

song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Evening Star

Lo! in the paintedoriel of the West,
Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines,
Like a fair lady at her casement, shines
The evening star, the star of love and rest!
And then anon she doth herself divest
Of all her radiant garments, and reclines
Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines,
With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed.
O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus!
My morning and my evening star of love!
My best and gentlest lady! even thus,
As that fair planet in the sky above,
Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night,
And from thy darkened window fades the light.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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By The Seaside : The Evening Star

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Evening Star, The

Lo! in the painted oriel of the West,
Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines,
Like a fair lady at her casement, shines
The evening star, the star of love and rest!
And then anon she doth herself divest
Of all her radiant garments, and reclines
Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines,
With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed.
O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus!
My morning and my evening star of love!
My best and gentlest lady! even thus,
As that fair planet in the sky above,
Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night,
And from thy darkened window fades the light.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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song performed by by Judas Priest
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Earth Laments for Day

THERE’S music wafting on the air,
The evening winds are sighing
Among the trees—and yonder stream
Is mournfully replying,
Lamenting loud the sunny light
That in the west is dying.

The moon is rising o’er the hill,
Her slanting rays are creeping
Where Nature lies profoundly still
In happy quiet sleeping,
And resting on her face, they’ll find
The earth is wet with weeping.

She mourneth for the lovely day,
Now deep in darkness shaded;
She sheds the dewy tear because
Of morning’s mantle faded;
She misses from her breast the garb
In which the moon array’d it.

The evening queen will strive in vain
To break the spell which bound her;
A million stars can never throw
Departed warmth around her;
They all must pass away and leave
The earth as they had found her.

But why should gentle Nature weep
That night has overtaken
The wearied world that needed sleep,
Refreshed to re-awaken,
So richer light might burst around,
The gloomy shadows breaking?

Oh, can she not from yonder sky
That gleams above her, borrow
A single ray, or find a way
To check the tear of sorrow?
A beam of hope would last her till
The dawning of to-morrow.

poem by Henry Kendall
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The Lonely Sparrow

Thou from the top of yonder antique tower,
O lonely sparrow, wandering, hast gone,
Thy song repeating till the day is done,
And through this valley strays the harmony.
How Spring rejoices in the fields around,
And fills the air with light,
So that the heart is melted at the sight!
Hark to the bleating flocks, the lowing herds!
In sweet content, the other birds
Through the free sky in emulous circles wheel,
In pure enjoyment of their happy time:
Thou, pensive, gazest on the scene apart,
Nor wilt thou join them in the merry round;
Shy playmate, thou for mirth hast little heart;
And with thy plaintive music, dost consume
Both of the year, and of thy life, the bloom.

Alas, how much my ways
Resemble thine! The laughter and the sport,
That fill with glee our youthful days,
And thee, O love, who art youth's brother still,
Too oft the bitter sigh of later years,
I care not for; I know not why,
But from them ever distant fly:
Here in my native place,
As if of alien race,
My spring of life I like a hermit pass.
This day, that to the evening now gives way,
Is in our town an ancient holiday.
Hark, through the air, that voice of festal bell,
While rustic guns in frequent thunders sound,
Reverberated from the hills around.
In festal robes arrayed,
The neighboring youth,
Their houses leaving, o'er the roads are spread;
They pleasant looks exchange, and in their hearts
Rejoice. I, lonely, in this distant spot,
Along the country wandering,
Postpone all pleasure and delight
To some more genial time: meanwhile,
As through the sunny air around I gaze,
My brow is smitten by his rays,
As after such a day serene,
Dropping behind yon distant hills,
He vanishes, and seems to say,
That thus all happy youth must pass away.

Thou, lonely little bird, when thou
Hast reached the evening of the days
Thy stars assign to thee,
Wilt surely not regret thy ways;
For all thy wishes are
Obedient to Nature's law. But ah!
If I, in spite of all my prayers,
Am doomed the hateful threshold of old age
To cross, when these dull eyes will give
No response to another's heart,
The world to them a void will be,
Each day become more full of misery,
How then, will this, my wish appear
In those dark hours, that dungeon drear?
My blighted youth, my sore distress,
Alas, will _then_ seem happiness!

poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi
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Bells Of The Evening

Bells of the evening, o sing to my love
Tell her I miss her, my own turtledove
The streets of the old town are covered with rain
I think I might never know true love again
Im lost with no road signs to guide me
A slave to my whiskey and dreams
Bells of the evening, o bells that I love
Ive got some feelings I long to be rid of
Im not one to ramble; Im not one to boast
Though I had one lover more lovely than most
She was a country girl born to be free
Who took to the city by chance there to find me
Bells of the evening go pealin
Im down here listenin to you
Bells of the evening, o bells of the sea
Tell her that I love her, that Im lost and so lonely
Bells of the evening, your sweet sunday sound
Reminds me of the redwoods and moss covered ground
So if I should wander on back to the coast
Tell her to remember its her I need the most
Im caught by the minstrels misfortune
Of being forever displaced
Bells of the evening, o bells of the sea
Tell her that I love her; that Im lost Im so lonely

song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Travels By The Fireside. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fourth)

The ceaseless rain is falling fast,
And yonder gilded vane,
Immovable for three days past,
Points to the misty main,

It drives me in upon myself
And to the fireside gleams,
To pleasant books that crowd my shelf,
And still more pleasant dreams,

I read whatever bards have sung
Of lands beyond the sea,
And the bright days when I was young
Come thronging back to me.

In fancy I can hear again
The Alpine torrent's roar,
The mule-bells on the hills of Spain,
The sea at Elsinore.

I see the convent's gleaming wall
Rise from its groves of pine,
And towers of old cathedrals tall,
And castles by the Rhine.

I journey on by park and spire,
Beneath centennial trees,
Through fields with poppies all on fire,
And gleams of distant seas.

I fear no more the dust and heat,
No more I feel fatigue,
While journeying with another's feet
O'er many a lengthening league.

Let others traverse sea and land,
And toil through various climes,
I turn the world round with my hand
Reading these poets' rhymes.

From them I learn whatever lies
Beneath each changing zone,
And see, when looking with their eyes,
Better than with mine own.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The House Of Dust: Part 02: 03: Interlude

The warm sun dreams in the dust, the warm sun falls
On bright red roofs and walls;
The trees in the park exhale a ghost of rain;
We go from door to door in the streets again,
Talking, laughing, dreaming, turning our faces,
Recalling other times and places . . .
We crowd, not knowing why, around a gate,
We crowd together and wait,
A stretcher is carried out, voices are stilled,
The ambulance drives away.
We watch its roof flash by, hear someone say
'A man fell off the building and was killed—
Fell right into a barrel . . .' We turn again
Among the frightened eyes of white-faced men,
And go our separate ways, each bearing with him
A thing he tries, but vainly, to forget,—
A sickened crowd, a stretcher red and wet.

A hurdy-gurdy sings in the crowded street,
The golden notes skip over the sunlit stones,
Wings are upon our feet.
The sun seems warmer, the winding street more bright,
Sparrows come whirring down in a cloud of light.
We bear our dreams among us, bear them all,
Like hurdy-gurdy music they rise and fall,
Climb to beauty and die.
The wandering lover dreams of his lover's mouth,
And smiles at the hostile sky.
The broker smokes his pipe, and sees a fortune.
The murderer hears a cry.

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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In Sandringham

In Sandringham by the Pacific sea
The Town is quiet on this August sunday
Most of the shops for the weekend have closed
And dark rain clouds hang low above the bay

But Sandringham is not always like this
In Spring and Summer 'tis a busy Town
On sundays shops are open people crowd the street
From mid morning until the sun go down

But I would prefer Sandringham like this
I sit here in quiet cafe sipping tea
And only a few locals to be seen
And loudest sound the rolling of the sea.

The silver gulls outside the cafe door
They wait for handouts chips and scraps of bread
But man made food not much good for their health
It slowly kills them so it has been said.

I love the sea side towns on days like these
The streets are quiet and few people to be seen
And the loudest sound the rolling of the waves
And a soul soothing tranquility reign supreme.

In Sandringham by the Pacific sea
The Town is quiet on this August sunday
Most of the shops for the weekend have closed
And dark rain clouds hang low above the bay.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Rainy day...

Rainy day
Cool evening
Porch sitting
Unusual for mid August.
Where is the usual summer evening traffic?
My thoughts drift
into my childhood past.
They come up blank
and I simply do not recall
what I did on summer evenings like this.
I just remember –
the smell of freshly cut grass
the catching of lightening bugs
devouring Good Humor ice cream
friends trying to invite themselves
into my backyard pool
playing a game called “Murder In The Dark”
in the backyard of the house across the street
when the sun went down.
I wonder
what summer evening games
the kids in my old neighborhood play now.
I wonder where
the kids I played with are now.
Should I visit the old neighborhood,
will I find our childhood spirits
still running around the streets?

poem by Bob Barci
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The Deserted Cottage

Who dwelt in yonder lonely Cot,
Why is it thus forsaken?
It seems, by all the world forgot,
Above its path the high grass grows,
And through its thatch the northwind blows
--Its thatch, by tempests shaken.

And yet, it tops a verdant hill
By Summer gales surrounded:
Beneath its door a shallow rill
Runs brawling to the vale below,
And near it sweetest flowrets grow
By banks of willow bounded.

Then why is ev'ry casement dark?
Why looks the Cot so chearless?
Ah ! why does ruin seem to mark
The calm retreat where LOVE should dwell,
And FRIENDSHIP teach the heart to swell
With rapture, pure and fearless?

There, far above the busy croud,
Man may repose in quiet;
There, smile, that he has left the proud,
And blest with liberty, enjoy
More than Ambition's gilded toy,
Or Folly's sick'ning riot.

For there, the ever tranquil mind,
On calm Religion resting,
May in each lonely labyrinth find
The DEITY, whose boundless pow'r
Directs the blast, or tints the flow'r--
No mortal foe molesting.

Stranger, yon spot was once the scene
Where peace and joy resided:
And oft the merry time has been
When Love and Friendship warm'd the breast,
And Freedom, making wealth a jest,
The pride of Pomp derided.

Old JACOB was the Cottage Lord,
His wide domain, surrounding,
By Nature's treasure amply stor'd;
He from his casement could behold
The breezy mountain, ting'd with gold,
The varied landscape bounding!

The coming morn, with lustre gay,
Breath'd sweetly on his dwelling;
The twilight veil of parting day
Stole softly o'er his quiet shed,
Hiding the mountain's misty head,
Where the night-breeze was swelling.

One lovely Girl, Old JACOB rear'd
And she was fair, and blooming;
She, like the morning Star, appear'd,
Swift gliding o'er the mountain's crest,
While her blue eyes her soul confess'd,
No borrow'd rays assuming.

'Twas her's, the vagrant lamb to lead,
To watch the wild goat playing:
To join the Shepherd's tuneful reed,
And, when the sultry Sun rose high,
To tend the Herds, deep-lowing nigh,
Where the swift brook was straying.

One sturdy Boy, a younker bold,
Ere they were doom'd to sever,
Maintain'd poor JACOB, sick and old;
But now, where yon tall poplars wave,
Pale primroses adorn the grave--
Where JACOB sleeps, for Ever!

Young, in the wars, the brave Boy fell!
His Sister died of sadness!
But one remain'd their fate to tell,
For JACOB now was left alone,
And he, alas ! was helpless grown,
And pin'd in moody madness.

At night, by moonshine would he stray,
Along the upland dreary;
And, talking wildly all the way,
Would fancy, 'till the Sun uprose,
That Heav'n, in pity, mark'd the woes--
Of which his soul was weary.

One morn, upon the dewy grass
Poor JACOB's sorrows ended,
The woodland's narrow winding pass
Was his last scene of lonely care,
For, gentle Stranger, lifeless there--
Was JACOB'S form extended!

He lies beneath yon Poplar tree
That tops the church-yard, sighing!
For sighing oft it seems to be,
And as its waving leaves, around,
With morning's tears begem the ground
The Zephyr trembles, flying!

And now behold yon little Cot
All dreary and forsaken!
And know, that soon 'twill be thy lot,
To fall, like Jacob and his race,
And leave on Time's swift wing no trace,
Which way thy course is taken.

Yet, if for Truth and feeling known,
Thou still shalt be lamented!
For when thy parting sigh has flown,
Fond MEM'RY on thy grave shall give
A tear --to bid thy VIRTUES live!
Then--Smile, AND BE CONTENTED!

poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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In London Town

It is not here I best enjoy
The pleasure, that can never cloy,
Of idly roaming London town,
Where such familiar names look down
Upon the wanderer in the street,
From Cheapside, Cornhill, and the Fleet.
The noisy, pushing, bustling crowd,
The din of trade and traffic loud,
Confuse the too bewildered sense
And drive a thousand memories hence.
When in the quiet town once more,
Where not a murmur of the roar
Of busy trade or loud displays
Disturb the quiet of her ways,
Backward my soul will turn and then
Will walk these London streets again;
While wits and poets of years gone by,
Who now in dim cathedrals lie,
Will meet me where their memories make
The places dearer for their sake —
And with their shades perchance a few
Of living forms shall mingle too.
So, often when the daylight dies,
Shall I at evcning close my eyes
To walk again the Strand, the Fleet,
And every dear familiar street,
And, undisturbed by din or roar,
Find every house and nook once more.
My London, which I carry west,
Is peopled only by her best.

poem by Walter Learned
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Christmas

How grace this hallowed day?
Shall happy bells, from yonder ancient spire,
Send their glad greetings to each Christmas fire
Round which the children play?

Alas! for many a moon,
That tongueless tower hath cleaved the Sabbath air,
Mute as an obelisk of ice, aglare
Beneath an Arctic noon.

Shame to the foes that drown
Our psalms of worship with their impious drum,
The sweetest chimes in all the land lie dumb
In some far rustic town.

There, let us think, they keep,
Of the dead Yules which here beside the sea
They've ushered in with old-world, English glee,
Some echoes in their sleep.

How shall we grace the day?
With feast, and song, and dance, and antique sports,
And shout of happy children in the courts,
And tales of ghost and fay?

Is there indeed a door,
Where the old pastimes, with their lawful noise,
And all the merry round of Christmas joys,
Could enter as of yore?

Would not some pallid face
Look in upon the banquet, calling up
Dread shapes of battles in the wassail cup,
And trouble all the place?

How could we bear the mirth,
While some loved reveler of a year ago
Keeps his mute Christmas now beneath the snow,
In cold Virginian earth?

How shall we grace the day?
Ah! let the thought that on this holy morn
The Prince of Peace -- the Prince of Peace was born,
Employ us, while we pray!

Pray for the peace which long
Hath left this tortured land, and haply now
Holds its white court on some far mountain's brow,
There hardly safe from wrong!

Let every sacred fane
Call its sad votaries to the shrine of God,
And, with the cloister and the tented sod,
Join in one solemn strain!

With pomp of Roman form,
With the grave ritual brought from England's shore,
And with the simple faith which asks no more
Than that the heart be warm!

He, who, till time shall cease,
Will watch that earth, where once, not all in vain,
He died to give us peace, may not disdain
A prayer whose theme is -- peace.

Perhaps ere yet the Spring
Hath died into the Summer, over all
The land, the peace of His vast love shall fall,
Like some protecting wing.

Oh, ponder what it means!
Oh, turn the rapturous thought in every way!
Oh, give the vision and the fancy play,
And shape the coming scenes!

Peace in the quiet dales,
Made rankly fertile by the blood of men,
Peace in the woodland, and the lonely glen,
Peace in the peopled vales!

Peace in the crowded town,
Peace in a thousand fields of waving grain,
Peace in the highway and the flowery lane,
Peace on the wind-swept down!

Peace on the farthest seas,
Peace in our sheltered bays and ample streams,
Peace wheresoe'er our starry garland gleams,
And peace in every breeze!

Peace on the whirring marts,
Peace where the scholar thinks, the hunter roams,
Peace, God of Peace! peace, peace, in all our homes,
And peace in all our hearts!

poem by Henry Timrod
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An Evening In October

An evening in October the second month of Spring
And in the Town of Emerald the common mynas sing
And gold billed blackbird whistling on sunlit wattle tree
And whoever coined the phrase was right 'the best things in life are free'.

The best things in life are always free and we don't have to pay
For the air we breathe and the water we drink and the sun that warms the day
And most of us do not appreciate what Mother Earth supply
We worry about little things and life we don't enjoy.

The birds sing for the joy of Spring in sun and wind and rain
They sing as if the Winter days will never come again
They do not have mortgage to pay their roof the open sky
They come and go at their own whim and they have their wings
to fly.

In sunlit park in Emerald just off of the busy street
The mynas and the blackbirds in song seem to compete
On an evening in October a warm and balmy day
And for the better things in life we do not have to pay.

poem by by unknown author
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Busy

I am busy
you are busy
we are busy
but the old woman needs help
to find her way home.

I am busy
you are busy
we are busy
but the dove is too slow
to fly out of the way.

I am busy
you are busy
we are busy
but the children crossing the street
are too many.

I am busy
you are busy
we are busy....

I am busy
you are busy
we are...
busy.

poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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En.Citatepedia®.ro

A Town

Related quotes

The Tower

The House Of Dust: Part 01: 02: One, from his high bright window in a tower

Tuesday Evening

Station Master

The Evening Star

By The Seaside : The Evening Star

Evening Star, The

Evening Star

The Earth Laments for Day

The Lonely Sparrow

Bells Of The Evening

Travels By The Fireside. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The Fourth)

The House Of Dust: Part 02: 03: Interlude

In Sandringham

Rainy day...

The Deserted Cottage

In London Town

Christmas

An Evening In October

Busy

En.Citatepedia^®.ro