The Celebes
DEAR islands of the Orient,
Where Nature's first of love was spent;
Sweet hill-tops of the summered land
Where gods and men went hand in hand
In golden days of sinless earth!
Woe rack the womb of time, that bore
The primal evil to its birth!
It came; the gods were seen no more:
The fields made sacred by their feet,
The flowers they loved, grown all too sweet,
The streams their bright forms mirrored,
The fragrant banks that made their bed,
The human hearts round which they wove
Their threads of superhuman love—
These were too dear and desolate
To sink to fallen man's estate;
The gods who loved them loosed the seas,
Struck free the barriers of the deep,
That rolled in one careering sweep
And filled the land, as 'twere a grave,
And left no beauteous remnant, save
Those hill-tops called the Celebes.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Related quotes
Love at Sea
WE ARE in love’s land to-day;
Where shall we go?
Love, shall we start or stay,
Or sail or row?
There’s many a wind and way,
And never a May but May;
We are in love’s hand to-day;
Where shall we go?
Our landwind is the breath
Of sorrows kissed to death
And joys that were;
Our ballast is a rose;
Our way lies where God knows
And love knows where.
We are in love’s hand to-day—
Our seamen are fledged Loves,
Our masts are bills of doves,
Our decks fine gold;
Our ropes are dead maids’ hair,
Our stores are love-shafts fair
And manifold.
We are in love’s land to-day—
Where shall we land you, sweet?
On fields of strange men’s feet,
Or fields near home?
Or where the fire-flowers blow,
Or where the flowers of snow
Or flowers of foam?
We are in love’s hand to-day—
Land me, she says, where love
Shows but one shaft, one dove,
One heart, one hand.
—A shore like that, my dear,
Lies where no man will steer,
No maiden land.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Gods
Gods of the white man,
Gods of the black man,
Gods of the almond shade
all of these Gods
have done one thing,
made the people afraid.
Gods of the red man,
Gods of the brown man
Gods of the yellow hue,
all of these Gods
have done the same
divided them into
Separate people
who've been led to believe
their God is the holy one
to save their souls
and pardon them
and deliver them
from earthly sin.
How can there be
so many Gods?
Isn't there only one?
One for every single soul
born unto this earth.
He's every color that there is
since the world's begun.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Sacrifice
i deamt that i was on top of a hill.
but this hill was just floating in space
it had no begining and no end
i was without family or friends-just loneliness surrounding me.
the pain i felt was so great-that i decided to jump off into space.
and as i was falling i was looking up.
when i saw what appeared to be-a long rubber hand
reaching out to me.-and when i felt myself falling far
he grabbed me like a little toy car.
i started to think-what can this be?
is it an alien reaching for me
or is this just gods outstretched hand
letting me know where i stand.
then the thought came to me-this is just like a baby
floating in its mothers womb.
waiting for it to be set free-and to give us all the love
it can-and live in this promised land..
this land of human sacrifice between a husband and his wife.
to sacrifice all that they can give-just so that
this child could live.
this sacrifice has to be great-for in god they put their faith.
so from this womb out i came
a child born with no name.
but thru their love i arrived-just in the nick of time.
poem by Louis Rams
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Reunited
Let us begin, dear love, where we left off;
Tie up the broken threads of that old dream;
And go on happy as before; and seem
Lovers again, though all the world may scoff.
Let us forget the graves, which lie between
Our parting and our meeting, and the tears
That rusted out the goldwork of the years;
The frosts that fell upon our gardens green.
Let us forget the cold malicious Fate
Who made our loving hearts her idle toys,
And once more revel in the old sweet joys
Of happy love. Nay, it is not too late!
Forget the deep-ploughed furrows in my brow;
Forget the silver gleaming in my hair;
Look only in my eyes! Oh! darling, there
The old love shone no warmer then than now.
Down in the tender depths of thy dear eyes,
I find the lost sweet memory of my youth,
Bright with the holy radiance of thy truth,
And hallowed with the blue of summer skies.
Tie up the broken threads, and let us go,
Like reunited lovers, hand in hand,
Back, and yet onward, to the sunny land
Of our To Be, which was our Long Ago.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Love is Enough
Love is enough. Let us not ask for gold.
Wealth breeds false aims, and pride and selfishness;
In those serene, Arcadian days of old
Men gave no thought to princely homes and dress.
The gods who dwelt on fair Olympia's height
Lived only for dear love and love's delight.
Love is enough.
Love is enough. Why should we care for fame?
Ambition is a most unpleasant guest:
It lures us with the glory of a name
Far from the happy haunts of peace and rest.
Let us stay here in this secluded place
Made beautiful by love's endearing grace!
Love is enough.
Love is enough. Why should we strive for power?
It brings men only envy and distrust.
The poor world's homage pleases but an hour,
And earthly honours vanish in the dust.
The grandest lives are ofttimes desolate;
Let me be loved, and let who will be great.
Love is enough.
Love is enough. Why should we ask for more?
What greater gift have gods vouchsafed to men?
What better boon of all their precious store
Than our fond hearts that love and love again?
Old love may die; new love is just as sweet;
And life is fair and all the world complete:
Love is enough!
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Manali - the Land of Gods
I always wondered why this place,
was called the land of Gods.
With harsh cold and mountain folds,
With loneliness and uneven moulds,
Without comforts and anything mod,
I didnýt know why it was called the Gods.
When I got the opportunity,
I decided to see,
Whether what I had heard was truth or hearsay.
Although I find it difficult to climb,
I agreed to join this treacherous mime.
When I arrived at the camp site,
I was dumbstruck and beholden with the sight,
Which stood before my very eyes.
Snow covered mountains, gushing streams, and the beautiful sunrise. And as I saw the various moods,
Of nature and it's various goods,
I slowly started to understand,
Why it is called the Land of God,
Despite the lack of anything mod.
Because the grass here is green,
And not the brown with which the cities teem.
Because the water here is pure,
And does not require a testing gear.
Because the birds here are free,
And not caged-in, as we see.
This land which lacks anything mod,
Is called the Land of Gods.
Because the mountains here reach up to heaven,
And are not like the Sahyadris all paven.
Because the wind here spreads fragrance,
Not dust, smoke, and other jargon.
Because the flowers here naturally bloom,
And are not forced to grow in pots to face their doom.
That's why this land which lacks anything mod,
Is called the Land of Gods.
Because the lakes here are blue,
And do not stink with the city stew.
Because the people here are simple,
And do not show off false smiles and dimples.
Because everything here is pure and natural,
This land which lacks anything mod,
Is called the Land of Gods.
Because the sun sets over a spectacular horizon,
And does not have to hide behind concrete prisons.
Because the jungles here are full of trees,
Where all components of nature mingle free.
Because at night we can see the stars,
which are not blocked out by the city lights spread afar.
That's why this land which lacks anything mod,
Is called the Land of Gods.
Seeing the Jogini waterfall,
And the Lammergeyer rock tall,
Listening about the Bhrugu Lake,
And the pleasure the effort gives and takes,
I came to know why this land which lacks anything mod,
Is called the Land of Gods.
And as I go on thinking,
In the spare moments lurking,
Where silently beside the stream,
Or by the tent rim,
I realize the reason,
Why this land which lacks anything mod,
Is called the Land of Gods.
And now the time has come for me,
To go back to my own city.
I yearn for this paradise,
Away from the city life.
Because this nature and me,
Share a similar spree,
For life and all it's blooms,
Adjusting to its glooms,
Now I see, why this land which lacks anything mod,
Is called the Land of Gods.
poem by Dipti Date Gokhale
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Mother India
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
You are the paradise on earth
Where things are not in any dearth.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
In Your Lap live men and women
Of every caste and religion.
You rain your love and affection
On them all without distinction.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
You have got a peculiar trait
Due to which you are very great.
You adopt the foreigners too,
Who like to live and die for you.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
You are beautiful, all perfect;
You are rich in every aspect.
In the ancient times, we have heard,
Aliens called you ‘a golden bird’
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
The mountains guard your honour here;
The ocean washes your feet there.
The rivers contain sweet water
Which for us is just like nectar.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
Our culture is ancient and high,
We are respected that is why.
Culture has bound us by and by,
With a chain of pure love and tie.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
We are sorry here live some men
Who are not loyal, but still then,
Pose as lovers of this nation,
Whom we do not like to mention.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
We are sorry here live some men;
Fire of hatred they ever fan.
Freedom, we fear, may not be lost,
Which we have got at a great cost.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
Let us be wise not to be tool
Of selfish powers which befool
Those who do not well understand
Their aim which is behind their stand.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
We will be lucky, if we die
For you, O Gracious Country High!
We’ll give them a fitting reply,
Who see you with a slanting eye.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
poem by Aziz Ahmad
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Wentworth
'Tis a new thing for Australia that the waters to her bear
One who seeks not strength of sunshine, or the breath of healing air;
One who reeks not of her riches, nor remembers she is fair;
One who land and houses, henceforth, holdeth not, for evermore;
Coming for such narrow dwelling as the dead need, to the shore
Named aforetime by the spirit to receive the garb it wore.
'Tis a strange thing for Australia that her name should be the name
Breathed ere death by one who loved her, claiming, with a patriot's claim,
Earth of her as chosen grave-place; rather than the lands of fame;
Rather than the Sacred City where a sepulchre was sought
For the noblest hearts of Europe; rather than the Country fraught
With the incense of the altars whence our household gods were brought.
'Tis a proud thing for Australia, while the funeral-prayers are said,
To remember loving service, frankly rendered by the dead;
How he strove, amid the nations, evermore to raise her head.
How in youth he sang her glory, as it is, and is to be,
Called her “Empress,” while they held her yet as base-born, over sea,
Owned her “Mother,” when her children scarce were counted with the free!
How he claimed of King and Commons that his birthland should be used
As a daughter not an alien; till the boon, so oft refused,
Was withheld, at last, no longer; and the former bonds were loosed.
How the scars of serfdom faded. How he led within the light
Of her fireside Earth's Immortals; chrism-touched from Olympus' height;
Whom gods loved; for whom the New Faith, too, has guest-rooms garnished bright.
'Tis a great thing for Australia; that her child of early years,
Shared her path of desert-travel, bread of sorrow, drink of tears,
Holding by her to these hill-tops, whence her Promised Place appears.
Titles were not hers to offer as the meed of service done;
Rank of peer or badge of knighthood, star or ribbon, she had none;
But she breathes a mother's blessing o'er the ashes of her son.
poem by Mary Hannay Foott
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Mother India
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
You are the paradise on earth
Where things are not in any dearth.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
In Your Lap live men and women
Of every caste and religion.
You rain your love and affection
On them all without distinction.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
You have got a peculiar trait
Due to which you are very great.
You adopt the foreigners too,
Who like to live and die for you.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
You are beautiful, all perfect;
You are rich in every aspect.
In the ancient times, we have heard,
Aliens called you ‘a golden bird’
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
The mountains guard your honour here;
The ocean washes your feet there.
The rivers contain sweet water
Which for us is just like nectar.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
Our culture is ancient and high,
We are respected that is why.
Culture has bound us by and by,
With a chain of pure love and tie.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
We are sorry here live some men
Who are not loyal, but still then,
Pose as lovers of this nation,
Whom we do not like to mention.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
We are sorry here live some men;
Fire of hatred they ever fan.
Freedom, we fear, may not be lost,
Which we have got at a great cost.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
Let us be wise not to be tool
Of selfish powers which befool
Those who do not well understand
Their aim which is behind their stand.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
We will be lucky, if we die
For you, O Gracious Country High!
We’ll give them a fitting reply,
Who see you with a slanting eye.
O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
poem by Aziz Ahmad 'Aziz Moradabadi'
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To Sleep
I will find out a place for thee, O Sleep-
A hidden wood among the hill-tops green,
Full of soft streams and little winds that creep
The murmuring boughs between.
A hollow cup above the ocean placed
Where nothing rough, nor loud, nor harsh shall be,
But woodland light and shadow interlaced
And summer sky and sea.
There in the fragrant twilight I will raise
A secret altar of the rich sea sod,
Whereat to offer sacrifice and praise
Unto my lonely god:
Due sacrifice of his own drowsy flowers,
The deadening poppies in an ocean shell
Round which through all forgotten days and hours
The great seas wove their spell.
So may he send me dreams of dear delight
And draughts of cool oblivion, quenching pain,
And sweet, half-wakeful moments in the night
To hear the falling rain.
And when he meets me at the dusk of day
To call me home for ever, this I ask-
That he may lead me friendly on that way
And wear no frightful mask.
poem by Clive Staples Lewis
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Gods Are Light
Gods are light, then deify them until the day
We die, in a feud with them since death like I say.
Gaunt man of lower pain is again in advantage
From a disease to complain with foreknowledge;
He must be treated with too much pleasure
Like a man who is deified, due to a measure.
Must godly men called doctors understand?
Yes, their roots are built from a land,
The land of apes and men, the land of the country
Which lent a hand to the man or woman who was a genie.
Gods are of light, gods are brains and body
To enlighten the minds of men who are doctors or somebody.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Cadences
I
(MINOR)
THE ANCIENT memories buried lie,
And the olden fancies pass;
The old sweet flower-thoughts wither and fly,
And die as the April cowslips die,
That scatter the bloomy grass.
All dead, my dear! And the flowers are dead,
And the happy blossoming spring;
The winter comes with its iron tread,
The fields with the dying sun are red,
And the birds have ceas’d to sing.
I trace the steps on the wasted strand
Of the vanish’d springtime’s feet:
Wither’d and dead is our Fairyland,
For Love and Death go hand in hand
Go hand in hand, my sweet!
II
(MAJOR)
OH, what shall be the burden of our rhyme,
And what shall be our ditty when the blossom’s on the lime?
Our lips have fed on winter and on weariness too long:
We will hail the royal summer with a golden-footed song!
O lady of my summer and my spring,
We shall hear the blackbird whistle and the brown sweet throstle sing,
And the low clear noise of waters running softly by our feet,
When the sights and sounds of summer in the green clear fields are sweet.
We shall see the roses blowing in the green,
The pink-lipp’d roses kissing in the golden summer sheen;
We shall see the fields flower thick with stars and bells of summer gold,
And the poppies burn out red and sweet across the corn-crown’d wold.
The time shall be for pleasure, not for pain;
There shall come no ghost of grieving for the past betwixt us twain;
But in the time of roses our lives shall grow together,
And our love be as the love of gods in the blue Olympic weather.
poem by John Howard Payne
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Gods of animals
If asses made gods
Gods would be in the form an ass.
Animals have no reverence to human gods,
But man has made animal gods.
16.03.2005
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Greater Love
ONCE upon a time,
Little Golden-Head,
Steeples used to chime,
And their chiming said:
'Peace is in the land —
Joy on every hand.'
Glowing youths and men
Rose and went their ways,
Some to hill and glen,
Some to shining bays.
And they left behind
Ills of heart and mind.
Oh, but it was sweet
Underneath the trees,
Bare of throat and feet,
Bathed in golden ease,
Two and two to lie
While the hours went by!
Sweet indeed it was
Thus to lie and laze,
Couched upon the grass
Through the shining days —
Sweet to breathe the air,
Free of toil and care!
On the beaches then,
Sporting with the sea,
Gathered brown-limbed men
Graced like statuary
Chiselled by some bold
Master hand of old.
All were guests of Joy;
All his sportive clan —
Here a shouting boy,
There a jesting man,
While the breakers hymned,
Braving them, stout-limbed.
Listen, Golden-Head!
Came a Wondrous One
Unto each, and said:
'Look on me, my son!
Am I not above
All things else you love?'
Then that love began
Which is more than life —
More than love of man,
Love of maid or wife;
Love of queen or king,
Aught or anything.
Little Golden-Head,
Is it well to tell
How they wrought and bled,
How they fought and fell
In their glowing prime,
Once upon a time?
Nay, but it is writ
That such things must be;
Oh the shame of it,
Oh the tragedy!
Oh the days of rue,
Oh the glory, too!
Little Golden-Head,
By the skies above,
By our honoured dead,
You shall know that love —
Know, and hold the time
When 'twas born sublime!
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Four Winds
Four winds blow across the land
Journey east in the caravan of change
Everything is connecting beyond man
Sensuality cleanses only the estranged
Wells are deep in the earth of soul
The purest sweet joy begins too flow
Principalities war in all the high places
We are fought in all the dark regions
Gird your sword every Christian soldier
The enemy brings his fallen legions
The battle is ours if we stand our ground
Hold on until the great trumpet sounds
Trust not in unsure riches and gold
The earth reels like a sick drunken man
Hold on to your most precious faith
Confusion like a plague sets on the land
Fill your vessels at the crimson streams
Jerusalem shall fill with His divine peace
Hear the gentle voice calling in the wind
Eternity is truly the real resting place
We leave Egypt for the Promised Land
We are led by the sweet voice of grace
These are the days of the Prophet Joel
Gods Spirit calls the young and the old
The four winds are gathering Gods people
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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A brief tribute to George Seferis, poet
When the gods allot
a time, a place, to those so mortal
mortals whom they love to test,
is it a greater gift they give to poets,
to live in a land of honeybees
and sun and sea and heroes sung, a land
assured, content, of gods and marble,
temples, amphitheatres, history,
or in that land in times of tragedy,
starvation, misery, division,
internal war and conquered servitude?
Ultimate, the irony – how can the gods
think up such things? – to be
ambassador, to represent a land
from which to have been exiled half a life;
exiled from within and exiled from without.
The love the gods bestow (the Chorus cries)
is terrifying; strange; to be hard learned.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Ayyappa The Naughty God
Ayyappa they called a god
badly I know you
not a god
but they called a god
not to hear from you
but you write from the soul
madly we read it
they called a mad
know this is true
God made words he made soul of songs
song of love
He made us to read, he made you
God, madly made eveything
Without her wondrous words
madly we read a poem from you
They say God made you a naughty
And he gave a godlen hand
hand to write poems
Yes I know he’s mighty good and truthful to you
he drinks with you, stay in the night
There is no god, but madly he writes for us
And he knows everything to dream
So just you call on him God
And he will share his love with you
stay with you, drinks with you
and he quit the room
where we sit together
all the time....
(a poet of our Gods own land)
poem by Thampi KEE
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C. Bledsoe: In Remembrance
Eighty years old plus a week and three days
Today your suffering is finally through
Leaving behind-your sweet Carmen
But soaring through the Heavens Divine wisps of blue;
It was eight months of horrific suffering
But guess that God needed you more up there
So loved upon this Earth from the moment of your birth
Still loved-although you are no longer here;
God Bless You-Sweet Cecil-God Bless You
You will be missed and to that we all can attest
For you were so loved-blessed by our God above
Quite simply-you were one of Gods very best! ;
June 16,2010 at 6: 00 P.M.
Rest In Peace.
Dedicared to C. Bledsoe
And for his sweet Carmen
poem by Theodora Onken
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How Sweet It Is
How sweet it is to be loved by you
How sweet it is to be loved by you
I needed the shelter of someone's arms and there you were
With sweet love and devotion gently touching my emotion
I want to stop - to thank you baby
How sweet it is to be loved by you
How sweet it is to be loved by you
Open my eyes at night
I wonder what I would be without you in my life
Everything was just a bore
All the things I've done you know I've done them before
But you brightened up all of my days
With your love so sweet and in so may ways
I want to stop - to thank you baby
How sweet it is to be loved by you
How sweet it is to be loved by you
Sweeter than the honey from the bees, baby
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To The Daisy (fourth poem)
Sweet Flower! belike one day to have
A place upon thy Poet's grave,
I welcome thee once more:
But He, who was on land, at sea,
My Brother, too, in loving thee,
Although he loved more silently,
Sleeps by his native shore.
Ah! hopeful, hopeful was the day
When to that Ship he bent his way,
To govern and to guide:
His wish was gained: a little time
Would bring him back in manhood's prime
And free for life, these hills to climb;
With all his wants supplied.
And full of hope day followed day
While that stout Ship at anchor lay
Beside the shores of Wight;
The May had then made all things green;
And, floating there, in pomp serene,
That Ship was goodly to be seen,
His pride and his delight!
Yet then, when called ashore, he sought
The tender peace of rural thought:
In more than happy mood
To your abodes, bright daisy Flowers!
He then would steal at leisure hours,
And loved you glittering in your bowers
A starry multitude.
But hark the word!--the ship is gone;--
Returns from her long course:--anon
Sets sail:--in season due,
Once more on English earth they stand:
But, when a third time from the land
They parted, sorrow was at hand
For Him and for his crew.
Ill-fated Vessel!--ghastly shock!
--At length delivered from the rock,
The deep she hath regained;
And through the stormy night they steer;
Labouring for life, in hope and fear,
To reach a safer shore--how near,
Yet not to be attained!
"Silence!" the brave Commander cried:
To that calm word a shriek replied,
It was the last death-shriek.
--A few (my soul oft sees that sight)
Survive upon the tall mast's height;
But one dear remnant of the night--
For Him in vain I seek.
Six weeks beneath the moving sea
He lay in slumber quietly;
Unforced by wind or wave
To quit the Ship for which he died,
(All claims of duty satisfied;)
And there they found him at her side;
And bore him to the grave.
Vain service! yet not vainly done
For this, if other end were none,
That He, who had been cast
Upon a way of life unmeet
For such a gentle Soul and sweet,
Should find an undisturbed retreat
Near what he loved, at last--
That neighbourhood of grove and field
To Him a resting-place should yield,
A meek man and a brave!
The birds shall sing and ocean make
A mournful murmur for 'his' sake;
And Thou, sweet Flower, shalt sleep and wake
Upon his senseless grave.
poem by William Wordsworth
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