Related quotes: DEAR old road, wheel-worn and...

The Old Bush Road

DEAR old road, wheel-worn and broken,
Winding through the forest green,
Barred with shadows and with sunshine,
Misty vistas drawn between.
Grim, scarred bluegums ranged austerely,
Lifting blackened columns each
To the large, fair fields of azure,
Stretching ever out of reach.
See the hardy bracken growing
Round the fallen limbs of trees;
And the sharp reeds from the marshes,
Washed across the flooded leas;
And the olive rushes, leaning
All their pointed spears to cast
Slender shadows on the roadway,
While the faint, slow wind creeps past.

Ancient ruts grown round with grasses,
Soft old hollows filled with rain;
Rough, gnarled roots all twisting queerly,
Dark with many a weather-stain.
Lichens moist upon the fences,
Twiners close against the logs;
Yellow fungus in the thickets,
Vivid mosses in the bogs.

Dear old road, wheel-worn and broken,
What delights in thee I find!
Subtle charm and tender fancy,
Like a fragrance in the mind.
Thy old ways have set me dreaming,
And out-lived illusions rise,
And the soft leaves of the landscape
Open on my thoughtful eyes.
See the clump of wattles, standing
Dead and sapless on the rise;
When their boughs were full of beauty
Even to uncaring eyes
I was ever first to rifle
The soft branches of their store.
O the golden wealth of blossom
I shall gather there no more

Now we reach the dun morasses,
Where the red moss used to grow
Ruby-bright upon the water,
Floating on the weeds below.
Once the swan and wild-fowl glided
By those sedges, green and tall;
Here the booming bitterns nested;
Here we heard the curlews call

Climb this hill and we have rambled
To the last turn of the way;
Here is where the bell-birds tinkled
Fairy chimes for me all day.
These were bells that never wearied,
Swung by ringers on the wing;
List! the elfin strains are waking,
Memory sets the bells a-ring!

Dear old road, no wonder, surely,
That I love thee like a friend!
And I grieve to think how surely
All thy loveliness will end.
For thy simple charm is passing,
And the turmoil of the street
Soon will mar thy sylvan silence
With the tramp of careless feet.

And for this I look more fondly
On the sunny landscape, seen
From the road, wheel-worn and broken,
Winding through the forest green.
Something still remains of Nature,
Thoughts of other days to bring
For the staunch old trees are standing,
And I hear the wild birds sing!

poem by Jenning Carmichael
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Related quotes

An Old Bush Road

Dear old road, wheel-worn and broken,
   Winding thro' the forest green,
Barred with shadow and with sunshine,
   Misty vistas drawn between.
Grim, scarred bluegums ranged austerely,
   Lifting blackened columns each
To the large, fair fields of azure,
   Stretching ever out of reach.

See the hardy bracken growing
   Round the fallen limbs of trees;
And the sharp reeds from the marshes,
   Washed across the flooded leas;
And the olive rushes, leaning
   All their pointed spears to cast
Slender shadows on the roadway,
   While the faint, slow wind creeps past.

Ancient ruts grown round with grasses,
   Soft old hollows filled with rain;
Rough, gnarled roots all twisting queerly,
   Dark with many a weather-stain.
Lichens moist upon the fences,
   Twiners close against the logs;
Yellow fungus in the thickets,
   Vivid mosses in the bogs.

See the clump of wattles, standing
   Dead and sapless on the rise;
When their boughs were full of beauty,
   Even to uncaring eyes,
I was ever first to rifle
   The soft branches of their store.
O the golden wealth of blossom
   I shall gather there no more!

Now we reach the dun morasses,
   Where the red moss used to grow,
Ruby-bright upon the water,
   Floating on the weeds below.
Once the swan and wild-fowl glided
   By those sedges, green and tall;
Here the booming bitterns nested;
   Here we heard the curlews call.

Climb this hill and we have rambled
   To the last turn of the way;
Here is where the bell-birds tinkled
   Fairy chimes for me all day.
These were bells that never wearied,
   Swung by ringers on the wing;
List! the elfin strains are waking,
   Memory sets the bells a-ring!

Dear old road, no wonder, surely,
   That I love thee like a friend!
And I grieve to think how surely
   All thy loveliness will end.
For thy simple charm is passing,
   And the turmoil of the street
Soon will mar thy sylvan silence
   With the tramp of careless feet.

And for this I look more fondly
   On the sunny landscape, seen
From the road, wheel-worn and broken,
   Winding thro' the forest green,
Something still remains of Nature,
   Thoughts of other days to bring: --
For the staunch old trees are standing,
   And I hear the wild birds sing!

poem by Arthur Bayldon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Road/Yes The Road Again

THE ROAD/ YES THE ROAD AGAIN

The road
Yes the road again
To see to feel
The beauty of the new in an ancient landscape-

Green green the trees
And blue the sky
And light the morning world-

The new
the road
The open road again

Who would have believed
I would ever find it again?

poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Call of the Bush

Three roads there are that climb and wind
Amongst the hills, and leave behind
The patterned orchards, sloping down
To meet a little country town.

And of these roads I'll take the one
That tops the ridges, where the sun
Is tempered by the mountain-breeze
And dancing shadows of the trees.

The road is rough - but to my feet
Softer than is the city street;
And then the trees! - how beautiful
She-oak and gum - how fresh and cool!

No walls there are to hamper me;
Only in blue infinity
The distant mountain-ramparts rise
Beneath the broad arch of the skies.

And in that high place I shall hear
The wild birds' singing, soft and clear;
And horse-bells tinkling as of old
In amongst the wattles' gold

Far-off is the ocean tide;
But there across the country-side
Roll waves of bush that rise and fall
To break against the mountain-wall.

And every little farm is seen
An island in a sea of green;
And every little farm at night
Flings through the dark its beacon-light -

There in the silence of the hills,
I shall find peace that soothes and stills
The throbbing of the weary brain, -
For I am going home again.

poem by Dora Wilcox
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Song of the Foot Track

COME away, come away from the straightness of the road;
I will lead you into delicate recesses
Where peals of ripples ring through the maidenhair’s abode
In the heart of little water wildernesses.

I will show you pleasant places; tawny hills the sun has kissed,
Where the giant trees the wind is always swinging
Rise from clouds of pearly saplings tipped with rose and amethyst,—
Fairy boughs where fairy butterflies are clinging.

Come away from the road; I will lead through shade and sheen,
Changing brightly as the year of colour passes
Through each tint the opal knows, from the flaming winter green
To the summer gold and silver of the grasses.

Here is riot of leaf and blossom, ferny mosses in the glade
Pressing round the wattle’s stem of dappled splendour;
Even the pathway that you tread smiles with daisies unafraid,—
Laden branches lean to breathe a welcome tender.

Come away from the road; let wild petals cool your eyes
Dim and hardened with the arid light of duty;
Lose awhile your weary purpose, leave the highway of the wise
For the little reckless of joy and beauty.

I am fairer still to follow where the Bush is lonelier grown
And the purple vines fling tendrils out to bind me;
For the secret of my lure is the call of the Unknown,
Hidden Loveliness that laughs: ‘Come and find me!’

Follow on, ah, come with me! Though the way is fainter shown
Where the restless waves of green have splashed and crossed me;
In the temple of the trees you have met delight alone;
Winning happiness, what matter though you lost me?

In this dreamy fane of sunshine, where wood-violets are rife,
Though I leave you,—path and bracken surges blended,—
Would you say I led you vainly? I have sung the joy of life,
I have set you in the way; my song is ended.

poem by Elsie Cole
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The New Forest

Tall trees offer the birds and beasts much protection;
Of flora and fauna, there is a truly fabulous collection.
Through the forest, ponies roam around wild and free;
Up above their heads, the small birds nest in the trees.

Under the canopy of the trees, the world seems so dim,
But, in grassy clearings, the sunlight is suddenly let in.
Trees, caught from falling, stand at an angle, inclined;
With other trees, their twisted limbs are now entwined.

Rabbits risk emerging from warren holes to run around;
Their long ears stand erect, listening for the tiniest sound.
The forest is punctuated with patches of soft, marshy land,
Where large pools of stagnant water, always seem to stand.

Herds of deer roam around, with their heads held up high;
But on seeing any human, they suddenly feel slightly shy.
Earthen tracks have been formed, by countless falling feet;
Eager to avoid the hidden dangers, of the soft bogs of peat.

Couples companionably dawdle, as they exercise their dogs,
Who, in their eagerness, vault over fallen, moss covered logs.
The boughs of Silver birch trees gently shimmer in the sun;
Twigs snap under foot, sounding like a shot fired from a gun.

The silence is sometimes broken, in places, by passing trains,
But once they've passed by, peace and quiet, once again, reign.
Leaves, twigs, pine cones, and berries, carpet the forest's floor.
For birds and animals, the forest is Mother Nature's food store.

The forest is a sanctuary from the pressures of modern living;
The pace there, compared to everyday life, is more forgiving.
The forest can be a magical place; it seems almost enchanted.
Tiny tots believe fairies live there and want their wishes granted.

Here and there, the ground rises into grassy mounds and banks.
The trees stand tall, like the attentive soldiers in military ranks.
In the shady spots, unfurl a multitude of magnificent spiky ferns.
In autumn, dressed in bright colours, the trees almost seem to burn.

Broken boughs lie abandoned; under lichen laden logs, insects hide.
Streams meander through the forest, and the surrounding countryside.
All of this outstanding natural beauty, is given to us humans for free;
There isn't a more tranquil place upon this earth, where I'd rather be.

poem by Angela Wybrow
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In The Shade Of The Green Wood

In the shade of the green wood
The holly does grow,
While in soft rays of sunlight
The wild roses glow,
And I smell their sweet perfume
That gently floats by,
Past trees strong and mighty
That reach to the sky,
The pathway of gold autumn
Leaves still remain,
As I walk through the green wood again.

In the shade of the green wood
This bright sunny morn,
That's so cool in the shadows
A new day is born,
All the birds in the treetops
Are singing for me,
Sweet songs of the summer
Which fill me with glee,
And know from its beauty
I never shall part,
For the green wood does live in my heart.

In the shade of the green wood
A soft gentle breeze,
Now caresses the branches
And whispers through trees,
A sound reassuring
Shall carry me to,
All the scenes that exist
In each marvellous view,
It's here that my spirit
Shall always now stay,
And the green wood is guiding my way.

poem by Andrew Blakemore
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Morning Song Of Love

Darling, my darling, my heart is on the wing,
It flies to thee this morning like a bird,
Like happy birds in springtime my spirits soar and sing,
The same sweet song thine ears have often heard.

The sun is in my window, the shadow on the lea,
The wind is moving in the branches green,
And all my life, my darling, is turning unto thee,
And kneeling at thy feet, my own, my queen.

The golden bells are ringing across the distant hill,
Their merry peals come to me soft and clear,
But in my heart's deep chapel all incense-filled and still
A sweeter bell is sounding for thee, dear.

The bell of love invites thee to come and seek the shrine
Whose altar is erected unto thee,
The offerings, the sacrifice, the prayers, the chants are thine,
And I, my love, thy humble priest will be.

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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I don't know why

On a day like today,
The heaven is soft with dew,
And in trees; birds have eyes crying,
But the air up in the sky was new.

With poppy clouds looking down,
From the broken road out of heaven,
Upon fine lines and pleasant farm,
A blanket of trees canvasses the ground.

There were farmers and shepherds,
Harvesting in the same field,
I don't know why the work was so hard?
Raking the soil and planting seed.

Shepherds find the grassy verge,
Where life is quiet and only soft birds sing,
In trees where they rest and observe,
The broken road to heaven.

poem by Gerry Legister
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A lane in England

In autumn I walked in England
in a lane full of trees
where leaves lay auburn
on a road wet from rain.

Barren, stripped oak trees
were between other green ones
and it was as if I was going
right through a tunnel
with here and there trees
of which the leaves were more yellow.

In the distance the road bended to the right
where a bush fence
cut neatly square
and telephone poles
ran along the edge of the road

and the green moss banks
were covered with auburn leaves
at places
and on the other side
of the road
a shrub stretched out green and long
like a sausage
that was lying next to the road

and I would love
to have a lane like that
next to my driveway.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Spirit of Poetry, The

And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill
The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,
My busy fancy oft embodies it,
As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets. Within her tender eye
The heaven of April, with its changing light,
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair
Is like the summer tresses of the trees,
When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,
It is so like the gentle air of Spring,
As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy
To have it round us, and her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Earlier Poems : The Spirit Of Poetry

There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows;
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandalled Eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid
The silent majesty of these deep woods,
lts presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind.
And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill
The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,
My busy fancy oft embodies it,
As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets. Within her tender eye
The heaven of April, with its changing light,
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair
Is like the summer tresses of the trees,
When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,
It is so like the gentle air of Spring,
As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy
To have it round us, and her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On A Tuft Of Grass

WEAK, slender blades of tender green,
With little fragrance, little sheen,
What maketh ye so dear to all?
Nor bud, nor flower, nor fruit have ye,
So tiny, it can only be
'Mongst fairies ye are counted tall.

No beauty is in this,— ah, yea,
E'en as I gaze on you to-day,
Your hue and fragrance bear me back
Into the green, wide fields of old,
With clear, blue air, and manifold
Bright buds and flowers in blossoming track.

All bent one way like flickering flame,
Each blade caught sunlight as it came,
Then rising, saddened into shade;
A changeful, wavy, harmless sea,
Whose billows none could bitterly
Reproach with wrecks that they had made.

No gold ever was buried there
More rich, more precious, or more fair
Than buttercups with yellow gloss.
No ships of mighty forest trees
E'er foundered in these guiltless seas
Of grassy waves and tender moss.

Ah, no! ah, no! not guiltless still,
Green waves on meadow and on hill,
Not wholly innocent are ye;
For what dead hopes and loves, what graves,
Lie underneath your placid waves,
While breezes kiss them lovingly!

Calm sleepers with sealed eyes lie there;
They see not, neither feel nor care
If over them the grass be green.
And some sleep here who ne'er knew rest,
Until the grass grew o'er their breast,
And stilled the aching pain within.

Not all the sorrow man hath known,
Not all the evil he hath done,
Have ever cast thereon a stain.
It groweth green and fresh and light,
As in the olden garden bright,
Beneath the feet of Eve and Cain.

It flutters, bows, and bends, and quivers,
And creeps through forests and by rivers,
Each blade with dewy brightness wet,
So soft, so quiet, and so fair,
We almost dream of sleeping there,
Without or sorrow or regret.

poem by Emma Lazarus
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Three Roads

There is a town in Ireland,
A little town I know;
Its girls have tender Irish eyes
Beneath their brows of snow;
And in the field around it
The Fairy Hawthorns grow.

O, the Hawthorn is a Queen
And the daughter of a King,
And amidst her branches green
The sweet brown thrushes sing.

And from that little city
Three roads forever run
And on those roads the people,
The father and the son,
The mother and the daughter,
Walk till the day is done.

O, the Hawthorn is a Queen
And the daughter of a King,
And amidst her branches green
The thrushes sadly sing.

One road runs to the seaport
Where stately vessels lie -
American, Australian -
The weeping exiles cry,
Farewell to Grave and Hearthstone!
Dear Ireland - good-bye!

O, the Hawthorn is a Queen
And the daughter of a King,
And amidst her branches green
'Farewell!' the thrushes sing.

One road it is a red, red road -
That road to England goes;
The battle-drums are sounding,
The trump of battle blows;
And Ireland's sons go forth to fight
Against Red England's foes.

O, the Hawthorn is a Queen
And the daughter of a King,
And within her heart of green
The mournful thrushes sing.

One road it is a quiet road;
They travel it full slow,
Their eyes are filled with sorrow,
The silent folk who go
To where the Stones of Silence
Are shining, row on row.

O, the Hawthorn is a Queen
And a Lady fair and grand,
And the thrushes sing the keen
Of the Dead - in Ireland.

poem by Victor James Daley
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The Forest Road

The forest road,
The infinite straight road stretching away
World without end: the breathless road between the walls
Of the black listening trees: the hushed, grey road
Beyond the window that you shut to-night
Crying that you would look at it by day -
There is a shadow there that sings and calls
But not for you. Oh! hidden eyes that plead in sleep
Against the lonely dark, if I could touch the fear
And leave it kissed away on quiet lids -
If I could hush these hands that are half-awake,
Groping for me in sleep I could go free.
I wish that God would take them out of mine
And fold them like the wings of frightened birds
Shot cruelly down, but fluttering into quietness so soon.
Broken, forgotten things? there is no grief for them in the green Spring
When the new birds fly back to the old trees.
But it shall not be so with you. I will look back. I wish I knew that God would stand
Smiling and looking down on you when morning comes,
To hold you, when you wake, closer than I,
So gently though: and not with famished lips or hungry arms:
He does not hurt the frailest, dearest things
As we do in the dark. See, dear, your hair -
I must unloose this hair that sleeps and dreams
About my face, and clings like the brown weed
To drowned, delivered things, tossed by the tired sea
Back to the beaches. Oh! your hair! If you had lain
A long time dead on the rough, glistening ledge
Of some black cliff, forgotten by the tide,
The raving winds would tear, the dripping brine would rust away
Fold after fold of all the loveliness
That wraps you round, and makes you, lying here,
The passionate fragrance that the roses are.
But death would spare the glory of your head
In the long sweetness of the hair that does not die:
The spray would leap to it in every storm,
The scent of the unsilenced sea would linger on
In these dark waves, and round the silence that was you -
Only the nesting gulls would hear - but there would still be whispers in your hair;
Keep them for me; keep them for me. What is this singing on the road
That makes all other music like the music in a dream -
Dumb to the dancing and the marching feet; you know, in dreams, you see
Old pipers playing that you cannot hear,
And ghostly drums that only seem to beat. This seems to climb:
Is it the music of a larger place? It makes our room too small: it is like a stair,
A calling stair that climbs up to a smile you scarcely see,
Dim, but so waited for; and you know what a smile is, how it calls,
How if I smiled you always ran to me.
Now you must sleep forgetfully, as children do.
There is a Spirit sits by us in sleep
Nearer than those who walk with us in the bright day.
I think he has a tranquil, saving face: I think he came
Straight from the hills: he may have suffered there in time gone by,
And once, from those forsaken heights, looked down,
Lonely himself, on all the lonely sorrows of the earth.
It is his kingdom - Sleep. If I could leave you there -
If, without waking you, I could get up and reach the door -!
We used to go together. - Shut, scared eyes,
Poor, desolate, desperate hands, it is not I
Who thrust you off. No, take your hands away -
I cannot strike your lonely hands. Yes, I have struck your heart,
It did not come so near. Then lie you there
Dear and wild heart behind this quivering snow
With two red stains on it: and I will strike and tear
Mine out, and scatter it to yours. Oh! throbbing dust,
You that were life, our little wind-blown hearts!

The road! the road!

There is a shadow there: I see my soul,
I hear my soul, singing among the trees!

poem by Charlotte Mary Mew
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The White Maiden And The Indian Girl

“Child of the Woods, bred in leafy dell,
See the palace home in which I dwell,
With its lofty walls and casements wide,
And objects of beauty on every side;
Now, tell me, dost thou not think it bliss
To dwell in a home as bright as this?”

“Has my pale-faced sister never seen
My home in the pleasant forest green,
With the sunshine weaving its threads of gold
Through the boughs of elm and of maples old,
And soft green moss and wild flowers sweet,
What carpet more fitting for maidens’ feet?”

“Well, see these diamonds of price untold,
These costly trinkets of burnished gold,
With rich soft robes—my daily wear—
These graceful flower-wreaths for my hair;
And now, at least, thou must frankly tell
Thou would’st like such garb and jewels well.”

“The White Lily surely speaks in jest,
For has she not seen me gaily dressed?
Bright beads and rich wampum belts are mine,
Which by far these paltry stones outshine,
Whilst heron plumes, fresh flowers and leaves,
Are fairer than scentless buds like these.”

“But, Forest Maiden, to this my home
What sights—what sounds of beauty come;
Pictures of loveliness—paintings rare—
All the charms that art can bestow are there,
With ravishing music of harp and song,
Sweet notes that to gifted souls belong.”

“The wild birds sing in our shady trees,
Mingling their notes with the vesper breeze;
The flow of waters, the wind’s low moan,
Have a music sweet that is all their own;
Whilst surely no tints or colors rare
Can with those of the sky and the wood compare.”

“But what of the winter’s cheerless gloom
When nature sleeps in a snowy tomb,
The storm clouds brooding over head,
Thy song-birds gone—thy wild-flowers dead?
With silence and gloom where’er you roam,
What then, what then, of your forest home?”

“We sing gay songs round our winter fires,
Or list the tales of our gray-haired sires;
When the hunting path has claimed our braves,
We pray to the God of winds and waves;
Or, on snow-shoes swift, we love to go
Over the fields of untrodden snow.”

“Then, I cannot tempt thee here to dwell,
Oh! wayward child of the forest dell,
To leave thy wandering, restless life,
With countless dangers and hardships rife
For a home of splendor such as this,
Where thy days would be a dream of bliss?”

“No, sister, it cannot my heart engage,
I would worry to death of this gilded cage
And the high close walls of each darkened room,
Heavy with stifling, close perfume;
Back to the free, fresh woods let me hie,
Amid them to live,—amid them to die.”

poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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The Long, Lone Road

YOU that had the soft path
And the lights, brightly glowing,
Your laugh is very still, and your hands are very chill,
And where may you be going?
'Though the light of dawn be breaking,
And the birds of morning call —
All the flowers and trees awaking —
'Tis the long road I'm taking,
The long road, the lone road that has no end at all.'
You that have the red gold,
And the gift of money-making,
Since your journey has no end, sure you'll need a heap to spend,
And how much will you be taking?
'O there's little need for spending
When the grey shadows fall,
And the twilight lies unending
On the way I'll soon be wending —
The long road, the lone road that has no end at all.'
You that had the choice wines,
In the frail cups glowing —
Is there any need to ask if you'll take a golden flask
On the road you'll be going?
'When I walk, a spirit shrinking,
Where the grey shadows fall,
There'll be little need, I'm thinking,
For the rich delights of drinking
On the long road, the lone road that has no end at all!'
You that sought the rich man
And the ladies — jewelled, glowing —
Since the way is far to wend, sure you'll need a true-heart friend
On the road you'll be going?
'Nay! — and not an ear shall heed me
Though I call, call, call,
When the beckoning shadows lead me;
And no prayer of heart shall speed me
On the long road, the lone road that has no end at all!'
You that had the hard heart
And the selfish soul uncaring,
Is there any deed at all that shall let a comfort fall
On the road you'll be going?
'Hush! the lights of day have ended,
And the grey shadows fall,
And, by no sweet thought attended,
I must wander, unbefriended,
Down the long road, the lone road that has no end at all!'

poem by Roderic Quinn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Ulla

Ulla, mine Ulla, tell me, may I hand thee
Reddest of strawberries in milk or wine?
Or from the pond a lively fish? Command me!
Or, from the well, a bowl of water fine?
Doors are blown open, the wind gets the blaming.
Perfumes exhale from flower and tree.
Clouds fleck the sky and the sun rises flaming,
As you see!
Isn't it heavenly--the fish market? So?
'Heavenly, oh heavenly!'
'See the stately trees there, standing row on row,--
Fresh, green leaves show!
And that pretty bay
Sparkling there?' 'Ah yes!'
'And, seen where sunbeams play,
The meadows' loveliness?
Are they not heavenly--those bright fields?--Confess!'--
Heavenly!
Heavenly!

Skal and good-noon, fair one in window leaning,
Hark how the city bells their peals prolong!
See how the dust the verdant turf is screening,
Where the calashes and the wagons throng!
Hand from the window--he's drowsy, the speaker,
In my saddle I nod, cousin mine--
Primo a crust, and secundo a beaker,
Hochlaender wine!
Isn't it heavenly--the fish-market? So?
'Heavenly, oh heavenly!'
'See the stately trees there, standing row on row,--
Fresh, green leaves show!
And that pretty bay
Sparkling there?' 'Ah yes!'
'And, seen where sunbeams play,
The meadows' loveliness?
Are they not heavenly--those bright fields?--Confess!'--
Heavenly!
Heavenly!

Look, Ulla dear! To the stable they're taking
Whinnying, prancing, my good steed, I see.
Still in his stall-door he lifts his head, making
Efforts to look up to thee: just to thee!
Nature itself into flames will be bursting;
Keep those bright eyes in control!
Klang! at your casement my heart, too, is thirsting.
Klang! Your Skal!
Isn't it heavenly--the fish-market? So?
'Heavenly, oh heavenly!'
'See the stately trees there, standing row on row,--
Fresh, green leaves show!
And that pretty bay
Sparkling there?' 'Ah yes!'
'And, seen where sunbeams play,
The meadows' loveliness?
Are they not heavenly--those bright fields?--Confess!'--
Heavenly!
Heavenly!

poem by Carl Michael Bellman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Parting

The chestnut steed stood by the gate
His noble master's will to wait,
The woody park so green and bright
Was glowing in the morning light,
The young leaves of the aspen trees
Were dancing in the morning breeze.
The palace door was open wide,
Its lord was standing there,
And his sweet lady by his side
With soft dark eyes and raven hair.
He smiling took her wary hand
And said, 'No longer here I stand;
My charger shakes his flowing mane
And calls me with impatient neigh.
Adieu then till we meet again,
Sweet love, I must no longer stay.'

'You must not go so soon,' she said,
'I will not say farewell.
The sun has not dispelled the shade
In yonder dewy dell;
Dark shadows of gigantic length
Are sleeping on the lawn;
And scarcely have the birds begun
To hail the summer morn;
Then stay with me a little while,'
She said with soft and sunny smile.

He smiled again and did not speak,
But lightly kissed her rosy cheek,
And fondly clasped her in his arms,
Then vaulted on his steed.
And down the park's smooth winding road
He urged its flying speed.
Still by the door his lady stood
And watched his rapid flight,
Until he came to a distant wood
That hid him from her sight.
But ere he vanished from her view
He waved to her a last adieu,
Then onward hastily he steered
And in the forest disappeared.

The lady smiled a pensive smile
And heaved a gently sigh,
But her cheek was all unblanched the while
And tearless was her eye.
'A thousand lovely flowers,' she said,
'Are smiling on the plain.
And ere one half of them are dead,
My lord will come again.
The leaves are waving fresh and green
On every stately tree,
And long before they die away
He will return to me!' --
Alas! Fair lady, say not so;
Thou canst not tell the weight of woe
That lies in store for thee.

Those flowers will fade, those leaves will fall,
Winter will darken yonder hall;
Sweet spring will smile o'er hill and plain
And trees and flowers will bloom again,
And years will still keep rolling on,
But thy beloved lord is gone.
His absence thou shalt deeply mourn,
And never smile on his return.

poem by Anne Brontë
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Canoe

My masters twain made me a bed
Of pine-boughs resinous, and cedar;
Of moss, a soft and gentle breeder
Of dreams of rest; and me they spread
With furry skins, and laughing said,
'Now she shall lay her polish'd sides,
As queens do rest, or dainty brides,
Our slender lady of the tides!'

My masters twain their camp-soul lit,
Streamed incense from the hissing cones,
Large, crimson flashes grew and whirl'd
Thin, golden nerves of sly light curl'd
Round the dun camp, and rose faint zones,
Half way about each grim bole knit,
Like a shy child that would bedeck
With its soft clasp a Brave's red neck;
Yet sees the rough shield on his breast,
The awful plumes shake on his crest,
And fearful drops his timid face,
Nor dares complete the sweet embrace.

Into the hollow hearts of brakes,
Yet warm from sides of does and stags,
Pass'd to the crisp dark river flags;
Sinuous, red as copper snakes,
Sharp-headed serpents, made of light,
Glided and hid themselves in night.

My masters twain, the slaughtered deer
Hung on fork'd boughs--with thongs of leather.
Bound were his stiff, slim feet together--
His eyes like dead stars cold and drear;
The wand'ring firelight drew near
And laid its wide palm, red and anxious,
On the sharp splendor of his branches;
On the white foam grown hard and sere
On flank and shoulder.
Death--hard as breast of granite boulder,
And under his lashes
Peer'd thro' his eyes at his life's grey ashes.

My masters twain sang songs that wove
(As they burnish'd hunting blade and rifle)
A golden thread with a cobweb trifle--
Loud of the chase, and low of love.

'O Love, art thou a silver fish?
Shy of the line and shy of gaffing,
Which we do follow, fierce, yet laughing,
Casting at thee the light-wing'd wish,
And at the last shall we bring thee up
From the crystal darkness under the cup
Of lily folden,
On broad leaves golden?

'O Love! art thou a silver deer,
Swift thy starr'd feet as wing of swallow,
While we with rushing arrows follow;
And at the last shall we draw near,
And over thy velvet neck cast thongs--
Woven of roses, of stars, of songs?
New chains all moulden
Of rare gems olden!'

They hung the slaughter'd fish like swords
On saplings slender--like scimitars
Bright, and ruddied from new-dead wars,
Blaz'd in the light--the scaly hordes.

They piled up boughs beneath the trees,
Of cedar-web and green fir tassel;
Low did the pointed pine tops rustle,
The camp fire blush'd to the tender breeze.

The hounds laid dew-laps on the ground,
With needles of pine sweet, soft and rusty--
Dream'd of the dead stag stout and lusty;
A bat by the red flames wove its round.

The darkness built its wigwam walls
Close round the camp, and at its curtain
Press'd shapes, thin woven and uncertain,
As white locks of tall waterfalls.

poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Rush-Bearing At Ambleside

SUMMER is come, with her leaves and her flowers—
Summer is come, with the sun on her hours;
The lark in the clouds, and the thrush on the bough,
And the dove in the thicket, make melody now.
The noon is abroad, but the shadows are cool
Where the green rushes grow in the dark forest pool.

We seek not the hedges where violets blow,
There alone in the twilight of ev'ning we go;
They are love-tokens offered, when heavy with dew,
To a lip yet more fragrant—an eye yet more blue.
But leave them alone to their summer-soft dream—
We seek the green rushes that grow by the stream.

Away from the meadow, although the long grass
Be filled with young flowers that smile as we pass;
Where the bird's eye is bright as the sapphires that shine
When the hand of a beauty is decked from the mine.
We want not their gems, and we want not their flowers.
But we seek the green rush in the dark forest bowers.

The cowslip is ringing its fairy-like chime,
Sweet bells, by whose music Titania keeps time;
The rose-bush is covered with cups that unfold
Their petals that tremble in delicate gold.
But we seek not their blossoms in garlands to blend,
We seek the green rush where the willow-trees bend.

The green rush, the green rush, we bear it along
To the church of our village with triumph and song;
We strew the cold chancel, and kneel on it there,
While its fresh odours rise with our voices in prayer.
Hark the peal from the old tower in praise of it rings,
Let us seek the green rush by the deep woodland springs.

poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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