The Consecrated Spot
WHEN in the dance of the Nymphs, in the moonlight so holy assembled,
Mingle the Graces, down from Olympus in secret descending,
Here doth the minstrel hide, and list to their numbers enthralling,
Here doth he watch their silent dances' mysterious measure.
All that is glorious in Heaven, and all that the earth in her beauty
Ever hath brought into life, the dreamer awake sees before him;
All he repeats to the Muses, and lest the gods should be anger'd,
How to tell of secrets discreetly, the Muses instruct him.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Related quotes
Upon The Skilfull Player Of An Instrument
He that can play well on an instrument,
Will take the ear, and captivate the mind
With mirth or sadness; for that it is bent
Thereto, as music in it place doth find.
But if one hears that hath therein no skill,
(As often music lights of such a chance)
Of its brave notes they soon be weary will:
And there are some can neither sing nor dance.
Comparison.
Unto him that thus skilfully doth play,
God doth compare a gospel-minister,
That rightly preacheth, and doth godly pray,
Applying truly what doth thence infer.
This man, whether of wrath or grace he preach,
So skilfully doth handle every word;
And by his saying doth the heart so reach,
That it doth joy or sigh before the Lord.
But some there be, which, as the brute, doth lie
Under the Word, without the least advance
Godward; such do despise the ministry;
They weep not at it, neither to it dance.
poem by John Bunyan
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In Youth I have Known One
How often we forget all time, when lone
Admiring Nature's universal throne;
Her woods - her winds - her mountains - the intense
Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!
I.
In youth I have known one with whom the Earth
In secret communing held - as he with it,
In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:
Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
A passionate light - such for his spirit was fit -
And yet that spirit knew - not in the hour
Of its own fervour - what had o'er it power.
II.
Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,
But I will half believe that wild light fraught
With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
Hath ever told - or is it of a thought
The unembodied essence, and no more
That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass
As dew of the night time, o'er the summer grass?
III.
Doth o'er us pass, when as th' expanding eye
To the loved object - so the tear to the lid
Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
And yet it need not be - (that object) hid
From us in life - but common - which doth lie
Each hour before us - but then only bid
With a strange sound, as of a harpstring broken
T' awake us - 'Tis a symbol and a token -
IV.
Of what in other worlds shall be - and given
In beauty by our God, to those alone
Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,
That high tone of the spirit which hath striven
Though not with Faith - with godliness - whose throne
With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;
Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
poem by Edgar Allan Poe
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Beautiful Dreamer Serenade
1 Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,
2 Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;
3 Sounds of the rude world heard in the day,
4 Lull'd by the moonlight have all pass'd a way!
5 Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,
6 List while I woo thee with soft melody;
7 Gone are the cares of life's busy throng, --
8 Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
9 Beautiful dreamer awake unto me!
10 Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea
11 Mermaids are chaunting the wild lorelie;
12 Over the streamlet vapors are borne,
13 Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.
14 Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,
15 E'en as the morn on the streamlet and sea;
16 Then will all clouds of sorrow depart, --
17 Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
18 Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
poem by Stephen C. Foster
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Stanzas
How often we forget all time, when lone
Admiring Nature's universal throne;
Her woods- her wilds- her mountains- the intense
Reply of HERS to OUR intelligence! [BYRON, The Island.]
I
In youth have I known one with whom the Earth
In secret communing held- as he with it,
In daylight, and in beauty from his birth:
Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
A passionate light- such for his spirit was fit-
And yet that spirit knew not, in the hour
Of its own fervor what had o'er it power.
II
Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,
But I will half believe that wild light fraught
With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
Hath ever told- or is it of a thought
The unembodied essence, and no more,
That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass
As dew of the night-time o'er the summer grass?
III
Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eye
To the loved object- so the tear to the lid
Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
And yet it need not be- (that object) hid
From us in life- but common- which doth lie
Each hour before us- but then only, bid
With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken,
To awake us- 'Tis a symbol and a token
IV
Of what in other worlds shall be- and given
In beauty by our God, to those alone
Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,
That high tone of the spirit which hath striven,
Tho' not with Faith- with godliness- whose throne
With desperate energy 't hath beaten down;
Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
poem by Edgar Allan Poe
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Beautiful Dreamer
Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,
Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;
Sounds of the rude world heard in the day,
I'll by the moonlight have all pass'd away!
Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,
List while I would thee with soft melody;
Gone are the cares of life's busy throng.
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea,
Mermaids are chaunting the wild sea;
Over the streamlet vapors are borne,
Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.
Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,
And as the morn on the streamlet and sea;
Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
poem by Jenny Piñero
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My Native Land!
WHERE is the minstrel's native land?
Where the flames of light and feeling glow;
Where the flowers are wreathed for beauty's brow;
Where the bounding heart swells strong and high,
With holy hopes which may not die--
There is my native land!
What is that bright land's music name?
Ere it bent its neck to a foreign yoke,
It was called the land of the broad strong oak--
The land of the free--the German land--
But her sons lie slain by the stranger's hand,
And she weeps sad tears of shame.
Why does the minstrel's country weep?
That the hurricane's rage hath bowed the pride
Of those who should stem the rising tide;
That her princes quail--and that none will hear
Her holy words of might and fear--
Therefore my land must weep!
To whom does the minstrel's country call?
It calls to the silent heavenly powers,
With despair, as the thunder darkly lowers,
For its freedom--for those who should break its chain--
For the hand that never strikes in vain--
To these doth my country call!
For what does the minstrel's country sigh?
That the bloodhound may hunt beyond the bound
Of the soil which brave hearts make holy ground;
That the serf may cease; and our sons be free,
Or those who have borne them, cease to be--
For this does my country sigh!
And still doth the minstrel's country hope?
Her hope is firm, for her cause is good--
That her brave will rise, and her true in blood;
And that God the avenger, our fathers' God,
Will mark the tears that bedew her sod--
Such is my country's hope!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Beautiful Dreamer
Stephen foster
Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,
Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;
Sounds of the rude world heard in the day,
Lulld by the moonlight have all passd away!
Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,
List while I woo thee with soft melody;
Gone are the cares of lifes busy throng
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea,
Mermaids are chaunting the wild lorelie;
Over the streamlet vapors are borne,
Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.
Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,
Een as the morn on the streamlet and sea;
Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Believe in Muses
Nine to the Universe, the Nine Divine
I believe in Muses, Inspire me to dream sublime
Empress Omega, Betty Shabazz, Nzinga all of the Queens
I believe in Muses, Inspire me to achieve impossible dreams
Your sepia back, so strong and beautiful as obsidian
I believe in Muses, Inspire me to search where truth is hidden
Thighs, eyes, hips and lips, I desire you body and soul
I believe in Muses, Inspire me to an orgasmic loss of self control
Your beauty has inspired men to create, to build, to rise
I believe in Muses, Inspire me to be a King in your eyes
poem by Vince Rogers
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Beautiful Dreamer
Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,
Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;
Sounds of the rude world heard in the day,
Lull'd by the moonlight have all pass'd away!
Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,
List while I woo thee with soft melody;
Gone are the cares of life's busy throng.
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea,
Mermaids are chaunting the wild lorelie;
Over the streamlet vapors are borne,
Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.
Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,
E'en as the morn on the streamlet and sea;
Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!
poem by Adam Clarke
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Aglaia: a Pastoral
Sylvan Muses, can ye sing
Of the beauty of the Spring?
Have ye seen on earth that sun
That a heavenly course hath run?
Have ye lived to see those eyes
Where the pride of beauty lies?
Have ye heard that heavenly voice
That may make Love's heart rejoice?
Have ye seen Aglaia, she
Whom the world may joy to see?
If ye have not seen all these,
Then ye do but labour leese;
While ye tune your pipes to play
But an idle roundelay;
And in sad Discomfort's den
Everyone go bite her pen;
That she cannot reach the skill
How to climb that blessed hill
Where Aglaia's fancies dwell,
Where exceedings do excell,
And in simple truth confess
She is that fair shepherdess
To whom fairest flocks a-field
Do their service duly yield:
On whom never Muse hath gazèd
But in musing is amazèd;
Where the honour is too much
For their highest thoughts to touch;
Thus confess, and get ye gone
To your places every one;
And in silence only speak
When ye find your speech too weak.
Blessèd be Aglaia yet,
Though the Muses die for it;
Come abroad, ye blessèd Muses,
Ye that Pallas chiefly chooses,
When she would command a creature
In the honour of Love's nature,
For the sweet Aglaia fair
All to sweeten all the air,
Is abroad this blessèd day;
Haste ye, therefore, come away:
And to kill Love's maladies
Meet her with your melodies.
Flora hath been all about,
And hath brought her wardrobe out;
With her fairest, sweetest flowers,
All to trim up all your bowers.
Bid the shepherds and their swains
See the beauty of their plains;
And command them with their flocks
To do reverence on the rocks;
Where they may so happy be
As her shadow but to see:
Bid the birds in every bush
Not a bird to be at hush:
But to sit, and chirp, and sing
To the beauty of the Spring:
Call the sylvan nymphs together,
Bid them bring their musicks hither.
Trees their barky silence break,
Crack yet, though they cannot speak
Bid the purest, whitest swan
Of her feathers make her fan;
Let the hound the hare go chase;
Lambs and rabbits run at base;
Flies be dancing in the sun,
While the silk-worm's webs are spun;
Hang a fish on every hook
As she goes along the brook;
So with all your sweetest powers
Entertain her in your bowers;
Where her ear may joy to hear
How ye make your sweetest quire;
And in all your sweetest vein
Still Aglaia strike her strain;
But when she her walk doth turn,
Then begin as fast to mourn;
All your flowers and garlands wither
Put up all your pipes together;
Never strike a pleasing strain
Till she come abroad again.
poem by Nicholas Breton
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A Prayer unto Christ
The Judge Of The World
O Dearest Dread, most glorious King,
I'le of thy justest Judgements sing:
So thou my head and heart inspire,
To Sing aright, as I desire.
Thee, thee alone I'le invocate,
For I do much abominate
To call the Muses to mine aid:
Which is th' Unchristian use, and trade
Of some that Christians would be thought,
And yet they worship worse then nought.
Oh! what a deal of Blasphemy,
And Heathenish Impiety,
In Christian Poets may be found,
Where Heathen gods with praise are Crown'd,
They make Jehovah to stand by,
Till Juno, Venus, Mercury,
With frowning Mars, and thundering Jove
Rule Earth below, and Heaven above.
But I have learnt to pray to none,
Save unto God in Christ alone.
Nor will I laud, no, not in jest,
That which I know God doth detest.
I reckon it a damning evil
To give Gods Praises to the Devil.
Thou, Christ, art he to whom I pray,
Thy Glory fain I would display.
Oh! guide me by thy sacred Sprite
So to indite, and so to write,
That I thine holy Name may praise,
And teach the Sons of men thy wayes.
poem by Michael Wigglesworth
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The Sun Hath Twice
The sun hath twice brought forth the tender green,
And clad the earth in lively lustiness;
Once have the winds the trees despoiled clean,
And now again begins their cruelness,
Since I have hid under my breast the harm
That never shall recover healthfulness.
The winter's hurt recovers with the warm;
The parched green restored is with shade;
What warmth, alas, may serve for to disarm
The frozen heart that mine in flame hath made?
What cold again is able to restore
My fresh green years that wither thus and fade?
Alas, I see nothing to hurt so sore
But time sometime reduceth a return;
Yet time my harm increaseth more and more,
And seem to have my cure always in scorn.
Strange kind of death in life that I do try,
At hand to melt, far off in flame to burn;
And like as time list to my cure apply,
So doth each place my comfort clean refuse.
Each thing alive, that sees the heaven with eye,
With cloak of night may cover and excuse
Himself from travail of the day's unrest,
Save I, alas, against all others use,
That then stir up the torment of my breast
To curse each star as causer of my fate.
And when the sun hath eke the dark repressed
And brought the day, it doth nothing abate
The travail of my endless smart and pain.
For then, as one that hath the light in hate,
I wish for night, more covertly to plain
And me withdraw from every haunted place,
Lest in my cheer my chance should 'pear too plain;
And with my mind I measure, pace by pace,
To seek that place where I myself had lost,
That day that I was tangled in that lace,
In seeming slack that knitteth ever most;
But never yet the travail of my thought
Of better state could catch a cause to boast.
For if I find that sometime that I have sought
Those stars by whom I trusted of the port,
My sails do fall, and I advance right naught,
As anchored fast; my sprites do all resort
To stand atgaas*, and sink in more and more [gazing]
The deadly harm which she doth take in sport.
Lo, if I seek, how I do find my sore.
And if I fly, I carry with me still
The venomed shaft which doth his force restore
By haste of flight. And I may plain my fill
Unto myself, unless this careful song
Print in your heart some parcel of my will.
For I, alas, in silence all too long
Of mine old hurt yet feel the wound but green.
Rue on my life, or else your cruel wrong
Shall well appear, and by my death be seen.
poem by Henry Howard
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Astrophel And Stella-First Song
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,
Which now my breast o'ercharged to music lendeth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only in you my song begins and endeth.
Who hath the eyes which marry state with pleasure?
Who keeps the key of Nature's chiefest treasure?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only for you the heaven forgat all measure.
Who hath the lips where wit in fairness reigneth?
Who womankind at once both decks and staineth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only by you Cupid his crown maintaineth.
Who hath the feet whose step all sweetness planteth?
Who else, for whom Fame worthy trumpets wanteth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only to you her sceptre Venus granteth.
Who hath the breast whose milk doth passions nourish?
Whose grace is such that when it chides doth cherish?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only through you the tree of life doth flourish.
Who hath the hand which without stroke subdueth?
Who long-dead beauty with increase reneweth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only at you all envy hopeless rueth.
Who hath the hair which, loosest, fastest tieth?
Who makes a man live then glad when he dieth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only of you the flatterer never lieth.
Who hath the voice which soul from senses sunders?
Whose force but yours the bolts of beauty thunders?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only with you not miracles are wonders.
Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,
Which now my breast o'ercharged to music lendeth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only in you my song begins and endeth.
poem by Philip Sidney
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The Wanderer's Storm-Song
He whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Feels no dread within his heart
At the tempest or the rain.
He whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Will to the rain-clouds,
Will to the hailstorm,
Sing in reply
As the lark sings,
Oh thou on high!
Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Thou wilt raise above the mud-track
With thy fiery pinions.
He will wander,
As, with flowery feet,
Over Deucalion's dark flood,
Python-slaying, light, glorious,
Pythius Apollo.
Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Thou wilt place upon thy fleecy pinion
When he sleepeth on the rock,--
Thou wilt shelter with thy guardian wing
In the forest's midnight hour.
Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,
Thou wilt wrap up warmly
In the snow-drift;
Tow'rd the warmth approach the Muses,
Tow'rd the warmth approach the Graces.
Ye Muses, hover round me!
Ye Graces also!
That is water, that is earth,
And the son of water and of earth
Over which I wander,
Like the gods.
Ye are pure, like the heart of the water,
Ye are pure like the marrow of earth,
Hov'ring round me, while I hover
Over water, o'er the earth
Like the gods.
Shall he, then, return,
The small, the dark, the fiery peasant?
Shall he, then, return, waiting
Only thy gifts, oh Father Bromius,
And brightly gleaming, warmth-spreading fire?
Return with joy?
And I, whom ye attended,
Ye Muses and ye Graces,
Whom all awaits that ye,
Ye Muses and ye Graces,
Of circling bliss in life
Have glorified--shall I
Return dejected?
Father Bromius!
Thourt the Genius,
Genius of ages,
Thou'rt what inward glow
To Pindar was,
What to the world
Phoebus Apollo.
Woe! Woe Inward warmth,
Spirit-warmth,
Central-point!
Gl ow, and vie with
Phoebus Apollo!
Coldly soon
His regal look
Over thee will swiftly glide,--
Envy-struck
Linger o'er the cedar's strength,
Which, to flourish,
Waits him not.
Why doth my lay name thee the last?
Thee, from whom it began,
Thee, in whom it endeth,
Thee, from whom it flows,
Jupiter Pluvius!
Tow'rd thee streams my song.
And a Castalian spring
Runs as a fellow-brook,
Runs to the idle ones,
Mortal, happy ones,
Apart from thee,
Who cov'rest me around,
Jupiter Pluvius!
Not by the elm-tree
Him didst thou visit,
With the pair of doves
Held in his gentle arm,--
With the beauteous garland of roses,--
Caressing him, so blest in his flowers,
Anacreon,
Storm-breathing godhead!
Not in the poplar grove,
Near the Sybaris' strand,
Not on the mountain's
Sun-illumined brow
Didst thou seize him,
The flower-singing,
Honey-breathing,
Sweetly nodding
Theocritus.
When the wheels were rattling,
Wheel on wheel tow'rd the goal,
High arose
The sound of the lash
Of youths with victory glowing,
In the dust rolling,
As from the mountain fall
Showers of stones in the vale--
Then thy soul was brightly glowing, Pindar--
Glowing? Poor heart!
There, on the hill,--
Heavenly might!
But enough glow
Thither to wend,
Where is my cot!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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The Nine Muses So Rapturous
The Lady Muses, nine thou be
Comely, wise, I see such beauty, thine
Daughters of Mnemosyne`s Shrine
Titaness of Memory, Daughters of Gaea
I, aspiring lyrist, thence
See erudite doxies, to accost
Inquire I, without them lost
They requite my homage with their prescience
Calliope, poetess of eloquence and epic
Clio, Muse of history
Erato, composer of lyric poetry
Euterpe, dearest Muse of lyre and music
Melpomene, writes of tragedy
Polyhymnia, sings Her songs so sacred
Terpsichore, of song and dance, well led
Thalia, playwright of the comedy, Urania of Astronomy
Oblations of Flowers, I besprent
To dear Muses, at Pieria born
In revery, Moonlight fades in morn
Yet ne`er The Wisdom, they hath sent
poem by Steve Trimmer
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Serenade
So sweet the hour, so calm the time,
I feel it more than half a crime,
When Nature sleeps and stars are mute,
To mar the silence ev'n with lute.
At rest on ocean's brilliant dyes
An image of Elysium lies:
Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven,
Form in the deep another seven:
Endymion nodding from above
Sees in the sea a second love.
Within the valleys dim and brown,
And on the spectral mountain's crown,
The wearied light is dying down,
And earth, and stars, and sea, and sky
Are redolent of sleep, as I
Am redolent of thee and thine
Enthralling love, my Adeline.
But list, O list,- so soft and low
Thy lover's voice tonight shall flow,
That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem
My words the music of a dream.
Thus, while no single sound too rude
Upon thy slumber shall intrude,
Our thoughts, our souls- O God above!
In every deed shall mingle, love.
poem by Edgar Allan Poe
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Everybody Dance (The Dance Of The Dead)
As the sun sinks upon the horizon,
As the dark night creeps in,
The dead dance.
On the streets they roam,
Silent,
Alone.
Everybody dances,
The saints and the sinners,
Everybody dances,
To the sound of the rhythm,
Everybody dances,
The dance of the dead.
The dance of the dead goes on,
And on,
Never stops,
Never slows,
Time does not matter to the dead.
Everybody dances,
The poor and the rich,
Everybody dances,
To the cries to the babies,
Everybody dances,
The dance of the dead.
As your time goes up,
The dead dance into your room,
Filled with silent movements,
They twirl with grace,
And style
And ease.
They reach out their hands,
And you take it,
And join the dance of the dead.
Everybody dance,
The young and the old,
Everybody dance,
The music is playing,
Everybody dance,
To the dance of the dead.
C’mon,
Everybody dance,
Soldiers and lovers,
Oh,
Everybody dance,
To sound they cry,
So,
Everybody dance,
To the dance of the dead,
The dance of the dead.
Oh,
Everybody dances,
Because the dance never stops.
6/05/06
poem by Charlie F. Kane
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Black
Black is thy thought, doth blacken thy name
Slandered beauty
So black is thy shame
Black is thy pupil doth blacken thy mood
Tortured beauty
So black when thy brood
Black is thy heart doth blacken thy tears
Sorrowful beauty
So black is thy fears
Black is thy skin doth blacken within
Black beauty
So black is thy sin
Black is thy hair doth blacken thy shawl
Despair beauty
So black is the abyss as thy beauty fall…..
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Oh See How They Dance!
their form
their posture
their movement
oh see how they dance!
their laughter
their joy
their smiles
oh see how they dance!
behind their faces of happiness and joy
they hide their true self
behind their masks they hide...
oh watch how they dance! ! !
across the stage
across the floor
up and over and under
they dance oh they dance! ! ! !
they act
they sing
they play
we watch how they dance! ! ! ! !
while we watch we think
what they hide behind their masks
on that stage and in character
and rejoicing! ! ! ! ! ! !
like nothing is wrong with their lives
i wish i would dance! ! !
but i go and i live my
boring old life and
oh i see how they dance! ! ! ! !
as
i
simply
stay lost in the crowd...
who sees how they dance.................
poem by Lost Princess
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Venus' Advice To The Muses
Thus to the Muses spoke the Cyprian Dame,
Adorn my altars, and revere my name.
My son shall else assume his potent darts;
Twang goes the bow; my girls have at your hearts.
The Muses answer'd Venus, We deride
The Vagrant's malice and his mother's pride:
Send him to nymphs who sleep on Ida's shade,
To the loose dance and wanton masquerade:
Our thoughts are settled, and intent our look
On the instructive verse and moral book.
On female idleness his power relies,
But when he finds us studying hard he flies.
poem by Matthew Prior
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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