Pleasures Of Fancy
A path, old tree, goes by thee crooking on,
And through this little gate that claps and bangs
Against thy rifted trunk, what steps hath gone?
Though but a lonely way, yet mystery hangs
Oer crowds of pastoral scenes recordless here.
The boy might climb the nest in thy young boughs
That's slept half an eternity; in fear
The herdsman may have left his startled cows
For shelter when heaven's thunder voice was near;
Here too the woodman on his wallet laid
For pillow may have slept an hour away;
And poet pastoral, lover of the shade,
Here sat and mused half some long summer day
While some old shepherd listened to the lay.
poem by John Clare
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Related quotes
Polonius: The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem unlimited. Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus too light. For the law of writ and the liberty, these are the only men.
line from Hamlet, Act II, Scene 2 by William Shakespeare (1599)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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The Giving Tree
Once there was a tree....
and she loved a little boy.
And everyday the boy would come
and he would gather her leaves
and make them into crowns
and play king of the forest.
He would climb up her trunk
and swing from her branches
and eat apples.
And they would play hide-and-go-seek.
And when he was tired,
he would sleep in her shade.
And the boy loved the tree....
very much.
And the tree was happy.
But time went by.
And the boy grew older.
And the tree was often alone.
Then one day the boy came to the tree
and the tree said, 'Come, Boy, come and
climb up my trunk and swing from my
branches and eat apples and play in my
shade and be happy.'
'I am too big to climb and play' said
the boy.
'I want to buy things and have fun.
I want some money?'
'I'm sorry,' said the tree, 'but I
have no money.
I have only leaves and apples.
Take my apples, Boy, and sell them in
the city. Then you will have money and
you will be happy.'
And so the boy climbed up the
tree and gathered her apples
and carried them away.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time....
and the tree was sad.
And then one day the boy came back
and the tree shook with joy
and she said, 'Come, Boy, climb up my trunk
and swing from my branches and be happy.'
'I am too busy to climb trees,' said the boy.
'I want a house to keep me warm,' he said.
'I want a wife and I want children,
and so I need a house.
Can you give me a house ?'
' I have no house,' said the tree.
'The forest is my house,
but you may cut off
my branches and build a
house. Then you will be happy.'
And so the boy cut off her branches
and carried them away
to build his house.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time.
And when he came back,
the tree was so happy
she could hardly speak.
'Come, Boy,' she whispered,
'come and play.'
'I am too old and sad to play,'
said the boy.
'I want a boat that will
take me far away from here.
Can you give me a boat?'
'Cut down my trunk
and make a boat,' said the tree.
'Then you can sail away...
and be happy.'
And so the boy cut down her trunk
and made a boat and sailed away.
And the tree was happy
... but not really.
And after a long time
the boy came back again.
'I am sorry, Boy,'
said the tree,' but I have nothing
left to give you -
My apples are gone.'
'My teeth are too weak
for apples,' said the boy.
'My branches are gone,'
said the tree. ' You
cannot swing on them - '
'I am too old to swing
on branches,' said the boy.
'My trunk is gone, ' said the tree.
'You cannot climb - '
'I am too tired to climb' said the boy.
'I am sorry,' sighed the tree.
'I wish that I could give you something....
but I have nothing left.
I am just an old stump.
I am sorry....'
'I don't need very much now,' said the boy.
'just a quiet place to sit and rest.
I am very tired.'
'Well,' said the tree, straightening
herself up as much as she could,
'well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting
Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest.'
And the boy did.
And the tree was happy.
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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The Voice of the Swamp Oak
Who hath lain him underneath
A lone oak by a lonely stream;
He hath heard an utterance breathe
Sadder than all else may seen.
Up in its dusk boughs out-tressing,
Like the hair of a giant’s head,
Mournful things beyond our guessing
Day and night are uttered.
Even when the waveless air
May only stir the lightest leaf,
A lowly voice keeps moaning there
Wordless oracles of grief.
But when nightly blasts are roaming,
Lowly is that voice no more;
From the streaming branches coming
Elfin shrieks are heard to pour.
While between the blast on-passing,
And the blast that comes as oft,
Mid those boughs, dark intermassing,
One long low wail pines aloft.
Till the listener surely deems
That some weird spirit of the air
Hath made those boughs the lute of themes
Wilder, darker than despair.
Darker than a woe whose morrow
Must be travelling to an end—
Wilder than the wildest sorrow
That in death hath still a friend;
Some lonely spirit that hath dwelt
For ages in one lonely tree—
Some weary spirit that hath felt
The burthen of eternity.
poem by Charles Harpur
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Stanzas To A Hindoo Air
Oh! my lonely--lonely--lonely--Pillow!
Where is my lover? where is my lover?
Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover?
Far--far away! and alone along the billow?
Oh! my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow!
Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay?
How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly,
And my head droops over thee like the willow!
Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow!
Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking,
In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking;
Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow.
Then if thou wilt--no more my lonely Pillow,
In one embrace let these arms again enfold him,
And then expire of the joy-but to behold him!
Oh! my lone bosom!-oh! my lonely Pillow!
The Beech Tree's Petition
O leave this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Though bush or floweret never grow
My dark unwarming shade below;
Nor summer bud perfume the dew
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;
Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn;
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
Th' ambrosial amber of the hive;
Yet leave this barren spot to me:
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Thrice twenty summers I have seen
The sky grow bright, the forest green;
And many a wintry wind have stood
In bloomless, fruitless solitude,
Since childhood in my pleasant bower
First spent its sweet and sportive hour;
Since youthful lovers in my shade
Their vows of truth and rapture made,
And on my trunk's surviving frame
Carved many a long-forgotten name.
Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,
First breathed upon this sacred ground;
By all that Love has whispered here,
Or Beauty heard with ravished ear;
As Love's own altar honor me:
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
poem by Thomas Campbell
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Fairest! Put on a While
Fairest! put on a while
These pinions of light I bring thee,
And o'er thy own green isle
In fancy let me wing thee.
Never did Ariel's plume,
At golden sunset, hover
O'er scenes so full of bloom
As I shall waft thee over.
Fields, where the Spring delays
And fearlessly meets the ardour
Of the warm Summer's gaze,
With only her tears to guard her;
Rocks, through myrtle boughs
In grace majestic frowning,
Like some bold warrior's brows
That Love hath just been crowning.
Islets, so freshly fair,
That never hath bird come nigh them,
But, from his course through air,
He hath been won down by them; --
Types, sweet maid, of thee,
Whose look, whose blush inviting,
Never did Love yet see
From heaven, without alighting.
Lakes, where the pearl lies hid,
And caves, where the gem is sleeping,
Bright as the tears thy lid
Lets fall in lonely weepin.
Glens, where Ocean comes,
To 'scape the wild wind's rancour;
And harbours, worthiest homes
Where Freedom's fleet can anchor.
Then, if, while scenes so grand,
So beautiful, shine before thee,
Pride for thy own dear land
Should haply be stealing o'er thee,
Oh, let grief come first,
O'er pride itself victorious --
Thinking how man hath curst
What Heaven hath made so glorious.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Christmas Day
What sudden blaze of song
Spreads o'er th' expanse of Heaven?
In waves of light it thrills along,
Th' angelic signal given -
"Glory to God!" from yonder central fire
Flows out the echoing lay beyond the starry choir;
Like circles widening round
Upon a clear blue river,
Orb after orb, the wondrous sound
Is echoed on for ever:
"Glory to God on high, on earth be peace,
And love towards men of love--salvation and release."
Yet stay, before thou dare
To join that festal throng;
Listen and mark what gentle air
First stirred the tide of song;
'Tis not, "the Saviour born in David's home,
To Whom for power and health obedient worlds should come:" -
'Tis not, "the Christ the Lord:"
With fixed adoring look
The choir of Angels caught the word,
Nor yet their silence broke:
But when they heard the sign where Christ should be,
In sudden light they shone and heavenly harmony.
Wrapped in His swaddling bands,
And in His manger laid,
The Hope and Glory of all lands
Is come to the world's aid:
No peaceful home upon his cradle smiled,
Guests rudely went and came, where slept the royal Child.
But where Thou dwellest, Lord,
No other thought should be,
Once duly welcomed and adored,
How should I part with Thee?
Bethlehem must lose Thee soon, but Thou wilt grace
The single heart to be Thy sure abiding-place.
Thee, on the bosom laid
Of a pure virgin mind,
In quiet ever, and in shade,
Shepherd and sage may find;
They, who have bowed untaught to Nature's sway,
And they, who follow Truth along her star-paved way.
The pastoral spirits first
Approach Thee, Babe divine,
For they in lowly thoughts are nursed,
Meet for Thy lowly shrine:
Sooner than they should miss where Thou dost dwell,
Angela from Heaven will stoop to guide them to Thy cell.
Still, as the day comes round
For Thee to be revealed,
By wakeful shepherds Thou art found,
Abiding in the field.
All through the wintry heaven and chill night air,
In music and in light Thou dawnest on their prayer.
O faint not ye for fear -
What though your wandering sheep,
Reckless of what they see and hear,
Lie lost in wilful sleep?
High Heaven in mercy to your sad annoy
Still greets you with glad tidings of immortal joy.
Think on th' eternal home,
The Saviour left for you;
Think on the Lord most holy, come
To dwell with hearts untrue:
So shall ye tread untired His pastoral ways,
And in the darkness sing your carol of high praise.
poem by John Keble
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The Apparition: A Retrospect
Convulsions came; and, where the field
Long slept in pastoral green,
A goblin-mountain was upheaved
(Sure the scared sense was all deceived),
Marl-glen and slag-ravine.
The unreserve of Ill was there,
The clinkers in her last retreat;
But, ere the eye could take it in,
Or mind could comprehension win,
It sunk! - and at our feet.
So, then, Solidity's a crust -
The core of fire below;
All may go well for many a year,
But who can think without a fear
Of horrors that happen so?
poem by Herman Melville
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The Tree (a Repost)
the tree
when the big tree falls
hit by lightning
roared by thunder
when the big tree finally falls
and i am there
the big sound
of a giant old tree
falling finally to the ground
the arrogance
that used to be
of that big old tree
we all look up
it is so high
and we do not
climb it anyhow
we fear
and
perhaps we too pay respect
for its grandeur
and today this big tree falls
hit by lightning and roared by thunder
the universe claps upon the
fall of arrogance and pride
and a tree's belief about
its hugeness and
strength
now this tree falls
and i am here watching it
you are not here
you are in some foreign country
how can i tell you
that this tree has fallen
and there is nothing to fear anymore?
when a tree falls and you are not there
your logic tells
there is no tree
there is no tree of such strength and posture
there is no tree like that
that can ever fall
all because a lightning hit it
and all because the thunder roared
without you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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44
when the big tree falls
hit by lightning
roared by thunder
when the big tree finally falls
and i was there
a big sound
of a giant old tree
falling finally to the ground
the arrogance
that used to be
by that big old tree
we all looked upon
it was so high
and we did not
climb it anyhow
for fear
and
perhaps respect for its grandeur
and today this big tree falls
hit by lightning and roared by thunder
the universe claps upon the
fall of arrogance and pride
and a tree's belief about
its hugeness and
strength
now this tree falls
and i am here watching it
you are not here
you are in some foreign country
how can i tell you
that this tree has fallen
and there is nothing to fear anymore?
when a tree falls and you are not there
your logic tells
there is no tree
there is no tree of such strength and posture
there is no tree like that
that can ever fall
all because a lightning hits it
and all because the thunder roared
without you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The tree
When the big tree falls
Hit by lightning
Roared by thunder
When the big tree finally falls
And I was there
A big sound
Of a giant old tree
Falling finally to the ground
The arrogance
That used to be
By that big old tree
We all looked upon
It was so high
And we did not
Climb it anyhow
For fear
And
Perhaps respect for its grandeur
And today this big tree falls
Hit by lightning and roared by thunder
The universe claps upon the
Fall of arrogance and pride
And a tree's belief about
Its hugeness and
Strength
Now this tree falls
And I am here watching it
You are not here
You are in some foreign country
How can I tell you
That this tree has fallen
And there is nothing to fear anymore?
When a tree falls and you are not there
Your logic tells
There is no tree
There is no tree of such strength and posture
There is no tree like that
That can ever fall
All because a lightning hits it
And all because the thunder roared
Without you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Tree
when the big tree falls
hit by lightning
roared by thunder
when the big tree finally falls
and i was there
a big sound
of a giant old tree
falling finally to the ground
the arrogance
that used to be
by that big old tree
we all looked upon
it was so high
and we did not
climb it anyhow
for fear
and
perhaps respect for its grandeur
and today this big tree falls
hit by lightning and roared by thunder
the universe claps upon the
fall of arrogance and pride
and a tree's belief about
its hugeness and
strength
now this tree falls
and i am here watching it
you are not here
you are in some foreign country
how can i tell you
that this tree has fallen
and there is nothing to fear anymore?
when a tree falls and you are not there
your logic tells
there is no tree
there is no tree of such strength and posture
there is no tree like that
that can ever fall
all because a lightning hits it
and all because the thunder roared
without you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Treecreepers
Elusive birds them one don't often see
Treecreepers build their cup shaped nest of bark behind loose bark of tree
From predators concealed and hidden away
And pinkish spotted eggs the female lay.
Shy woodland birds of humans they show respectful fear
They climb tree trunks in search of insects and when human to them venture near
Of the tree trunk they disappear to the other side
Of watchers eyes they'd much prefer to hide.
They will never be renowned as birds of song
Though their familiar chirps one hardly could get wrong
The ornithologists and bird watchers on studying them don't spend much of their time
And they seldom have inspired the poets to rhyme.
From the day they leave the nest until the day they die
From ground up they climb the tree and then to the next tree fly
To climb again in search of invertebrates such things they like to eat
They must have great strength in their tiny feet
In wooded places they like to reside
And from predators their cup shaped nest they hide
Shy little birds when human to them venture near
To the other side of the tree trunk they disappear.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A silhouette of childhood
Flow down, cold distilled rivulets never make it to the sea,
Your tribute waves into my childhood memories deliver:
Yet, no more by thee my old forgotten steps shall be,
For ever, and never again for ever.
Flow, softly flow by newly built houses; among reeds; by little lawn or lea,
A host of joyful rivulets never to join and to bond into a river;
Time has taken my steps away, not at your banks to be,
For ever and never again for ever.
But here still will smile your century old fig tree,
With a huge trunk and sturdy blistered boughs the wind will never shiver
A gang of cheerful kids with mouthful of figs sweet like honey bee
For ever in my silhouette memories; again and again for ever.
Here in my childhood scenes and voices I shall ever be
Under thousands of suns stream and moons sheen, figures dance and quiver
Even though not by these scenes my steps shall ever be,
For ever and for ever
I walked through your streets gaunt and grim; none of the past for me to see
I came to relive, to remember, to reminiscence but I was left an abundant receiver
My bosom sank; my voice choked gnawing within me
For ever and for ever under such burdening painful endeavor
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House and Man
One hour: as dim he and his house now look
As a reflection in a rippling brook,
While I remember him; but first, his house.
Empty it sounded. It was dark with forest boughs
That brushed the walls and made the mossy tiles
Part of the squirrels' track. In all those miles
Of forest silence and forest murmur, only
One house - 'Lonely!' he said, 'I wish it were lonely' -
Which the trees looked upon from every side,
And that was his.
He waved good-bye to hide
A sigh that he converted to a laugh.
He seemed to hang rather than stand there, half
Ghost-like, half like a beggar's rag, clean wrung
And useless on the brier where it has hung
Long years a-washing by sun and wind and rain.
But why I call back man and house again
Is there now a beech-tree's tip I see
As then I saw - I at the gate, and he
In the house darkness, - magpie veering about,
A magpie like a weathercock in doubt.
poem by Edward Thomas
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Early Nightingale
When first we hear the shy-come nightingales,
They seem to mutter o’er their songs in fear,
And, climb we e’er so soft the spinney rails,
All stops as if no bird was anywhere.
The kindled bushes with the young leaves thin
Let curious eyes to search a long way in,
Until impatience cannot see or hear
The hidden music; gets but little way
Upon the path - when up the songs begin,
Full loud a moment and then low again.
But when a day or two confirms her stay
Boldly she sings and loud for half the day;
And soon the village brings the woodman’s tale
Of having heard the new-come nightingale.
poem by John Clare
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The Ladder
Once upon a time in the land of sinaplenty
There lived a king who didnt deserve 2 be
He knew not where he came from
Nor where he was going
He never once said thank u, never please
Now this king he had a subject named electra
Who loved him with a passion, uncontested
4 him each day she had a smile
But it didnt matter
The king was looking 4 the ladder
Everybodys looking 4 the ladder
Everybody wants salvation of the soul
The steps u take are no easy road
But the reward is great
4 those who want 2 go
A feeling of self-worth (everybodys looking)
Will caress u (for the answers)
The size of the whole wide world will decrease (how the story started)
(and how it will end)
The love of gods creation will undress u
And time spent alone my friend, will cease
Everybodys looking 4 the answers
How the story started and how it will end
Whats the use in half a story, half a dream
U have 2 climb all of the steps in between (yeah, we ride)
Everybodys looking 4 the ladder
Everybody wants salvation of the soul
The steps u take are no easy road (the steps you take are no easy road)
(its not that easy)
But the reward is great
4 those who want 2 go (I do)
Everybody... everybodys looking (everybodys looking 4 the answers)
For the answers
Everybody wants to know how the story (how the story started)
Started and how it will end (started and how it will end)
Whats the use in half a story, (whats the use in half a story)
Half a dream (half of a dream)
U, u gotta climb, u gotta climb (u have 2 climb all)
All of the steps in between (the steps in between)
Everybody,
Everybodys looking 4 that ladder (everybodys looking 4 the ladder)
Everybody wants salvation of the soul (everybody wants salvation of the soul)
(salvation)
The steps u take are no easy road (the steps you take are no easy road)
(thats for sure)
But the reward is great (the reward is great)
4 those who want 2 go, (4 those who want 2 go)
Those who want 2 go
Everybody... everybody wants (everybodys looking 4 the answers)
An answer
Anyone who know how the story (how the story started)
Started, how it will end (started and how it will end)
Will it be lonely in the world (whats the use in half a story)
Whats the use? (half of a dream)
(have 2 climb all)
(the steps in between)
song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Raven. Christmas Tale, Told By A School-Boy To His Little Brothers And Sisters
Underneath an old oak tree
There was of swine a huge company
That grunted as they crunched the mast
For that was ripe, and fell full fast.
Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high:
One acorn they left, and no more might you spy.
Next came a Raven, that liked not such folly
He belonged, they did say, to the witch Melancholy!
Blacker was he than blackest jet,
Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet
He picked up the acorn and buried it straight
By the side of a river both deep and great.
Where then did the Raven go?
He went high and low
Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go.
Many Autumns, many Springs
Traveled he with wandering wings:
Many summers, many Winters
I can't tell half his adventures.
At length he came back, and with him a She
And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree.
They built them a nest in the topmost bough,
And young ones they had, and were happy enow.
But soon came a Woodman in leathern guise,
His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes.
He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke,
But with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke,
At length he brought down the poor Raven's own oak.
His young ones were killed; for they could not depart,
And their mother did die of a broken heart.
The boughs from the trunk the Woodman did sever;
And they floated it down on the course of the river.
They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip,
And with this tree and others they made a good ship.
The ship, it was launched; but in sight of the land
Such a storm there did rise as no ship would withstand.
It bulged on a rock, and the waves rush'd in fast;
Round and round flew the Raven, and cawed to the blast.
He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls--
See! see! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls!
Right glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet,
And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet,
And he thank'd him again and again for this treat:
They had taken his all; and Revenge it was sweet!
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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The Birds
He. Where thou dwellest in what Grove
Tell me Fair one tell me love
Where thou thy charming Nest dost build
O thou pride of every field
She. Yonder stands a lonely tree
There I live and mourn for thee
Morning drinks my silent tear
And evening winds my sorrows bear
He. O thou Summers harmony
I have livd & mournd for thee
Each day I mourn along the wood
And night hath heard my sorrows loud
She. Dost thou truly long for me
And am I thus sweet to thee
Sorrow now is at an End
O my Lover & my Friend
He. Come on wings of joy well fly
To where my Bower hangs on high
Come & make thy calm retreat
Among green leaves and blossoms sweet
poem by William Blake from Songs and Ballads (1794)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Robin
Thou need'st not flutter from thy half-built nest,
Whene'er thou hear'st man's hurrying feet go by,
Fearing his eye for harm may on thee rest,
Or he thy young unfinished cottage spy;
All will not heed thee on that swinging bough,
Nor care that round thy shelter spring the leaves,
Nor watch thee on the pool's wet margin now
For clay to plaster straws thy cunning weaves;
All will not hear thy sweet out-pouring joy,
That with morn's stillness blends the voice of song,
For over-anxious cares their souls employ,
That else upon thy music borne along
And the light wings of heart-ascending prayer
Had learned that Heaven is pleased thy simple joys to share.
poem by Jones Very
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