The Sleep Of Spring
O for that sweet, untroubled rest
That poets oft have sung!--
The babe upon its mother's breast,
The bird upon its young,
The heart asleep without a pain--
When shall I know that sleep again?
When shall I be as I have been
Upon my mother's breast
Sweet Nature's garb of verdant green
To woo to perfect rest--
Love in the meadow, field, and glen,
And in my native wilds again?
The sheep within the fallow field,
The herd upon the green,
The larks that in the thistle shield,
And pipe from morn to e'en--
O for the pasture, fields, and fen!
When shall I see such rest again?
I love the weeds along the fen,
More sweet than garden flowers,
For freedom haunts the humble glen
That blest my happiest hours.
Here prison injures health and me:
I love sweet freedom and the free.
The crows upon the swelling hills,
The cows upon the lea,
Sheep feeding by the pasture rills,
Are ever dear to me,
Because sweet freedom is their mate,
While I am lone and desolate.
I loved the winds when I was young,
When life was dear to me;
I loved the song which Nature sung,
Endearing liberty;
I loved the wood, the vale, the stream,
For there my boyhood used to dream.
There even toil itself was play;
Twas pleasure een to weep;
Twas joy to think of dreams by day,
The beautiful of sleep.
When shall I see the wood and plain,
And dream those happy dreams again?
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Love's Young Dream
Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright
My heart's chain wove;
When my dream of life, from morn till night,
Was love, still love.
New hope may bloom,
And days may come,
Of milder calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream:
No, there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream.
Though the bard to purer fame may soar,
When wild youth's past;
Though he win the wise, who frown'd before,
To smile at last;
He'll never meet
A joy so sweet,
In all his noon of fame,
As when first he sung to woman's ear
His soul-felt flame,
And, at every close, she blush'd to hear
The one loved name.
No, -- that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot
Which first love traced;
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory's waste.
'Twas odour fled
As soon as shed;
'Twas morning's winged dream;
'Twas a light, tht ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream:
Oh! 'twas light that n'er can shine again
On life's dull stream.
poem by Thomas Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sweet Freedom
As you look around you
Do you like what you see?
Though it sometimes
Makes you lonely
Do you like being free?
And are you sure youll be okay
Without my company?
I just want you to be happy
Even if its not with me
Sweet sweet freedom
Sweet sweet sweet
Will the line between all this
And my love ever meet
Sweet sweet freedom
Sweet sweet sweet
What Im really tryin to say
Is that I will be around
Should you find that after all
You cant get by
With what you found
Oh, it wasnt just my heart you took
And gently tossed into the sea
Though its hard to find
The words I need -
I guess it was me
Will the line between all this
And my love ever gonna meet
Sweet sweet freedom
Sweet sweet sweet
Oh sweet, oh sweet sweet freedom
So sweet, so sweet
song performed by by Uriah Heep
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Glen Song
There's a green glen in Eirinn,
A green glen in Eirinn!
Do you remember yet, a gradh, the sunshine of that day,
How the the river ran before us, and the fleckless blue hung o'er us,
And against the purple heather gleamed the yellow of the hay?
There's a green glen in Eirinn,
A green glen in Eirinn!
Where on a dew-wet swinging spray brown throstles trilled above,
And the blackbird carolled after in a silver rain of laughter,
And the little linnet piped its song that has no theme but Love.
There's a green glen in Eirinn,
A green glen in Eirinn!
'Twas sweet with you beside me in a world of harvest gold:
The sallaghs made a shadow in a corner of the meadow,
And your eyes were wells of kindness, and my hand lay in your hold.
There's a green glen in Eirinn,
A green glen in Eirinn!
The voice of Spring comes on the winds like cuckoo calling clear
She bids us fare together, nor heed the fitful weather–
And seek in yon green glen the joy that waits our hearts, my Dear.
poem by Anna Johnston MacManus
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A Rocking Hymn
Sweet baby, sleep! what ails my dear,
What ails my darling thus to cry?
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear
To hear me sing thy lullaby.
My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;
Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?
What thing to thee can mischief do?
Thy God is now thy father dear,
His holy Spouse, thy mother too.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Though thy conception was in sin,
A sacred bathing thou hast had;
And, though thy birth unclean hath been,
A blameless babe thou now art made.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep,
While thus thy lullaby I sing,
For thee great blessings ripening be;
Thine eldest brother is a King,
And hath a kingdom bought for thee.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Sweet baby, sleep and nothing fear,
For whosoever thee offends,
By thy protector threat'ned are,
And God and angels are thy friends.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
When God with us was dwelling here,
In little babes he took delight;
Such innocents as thou, my dear,
Are ever precious in His sight.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
A little infant once was He,
And, strength in weakness, then was laid
Upon His virgin-mother's knee,
That power to thee might be conveyed.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
In this, thy frailty and thy need,
He friends and helpers doth prepare,
Which thee shall cherish, clothe and feed;
For of thy weal they tender are.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The King of kings, when he was born,
Had not so much for outward ease;
By Him such dressings were not worn,
Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Within a manger lodged thy Lord
Where oxen lay and asses fed;
Warm rooms we do to thee afford,
An easy cradle or a bed.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The wants that He did then sustain
Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee;
And by His torments and His pain
Thy rest and ease securèd be.
My baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou hast (yet more) to perfect this,
A promise and an earnest got
Of gaining everlasting bliss,
Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not;
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
poem by George Wither
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Anna Lu King 1910/2001
O’ beautiful black queen…
The center of my dreams…
Enjoy your sleep…
It made me weep…
Yet in my heart you I keep…
And there you will live on…
O’ great queen…
You still watch over me…
And give me God’s favor, faith…
You’ve showed me how and what…
Is love…
Understanding how I was bad and made me see…
My good…
O’ beautiful black queen…Mother…
Of my Mother…
Woman of my second home…
A whole woman…
A woman with an iron fist…
And a heart of gold…
A God fearing woman…
Sleep…you sweet thang…
In my heart you will always…
Ring…
Making the whole of me sing…
I love you for the words…
You never spoke…
You my mothers, mother…
Twins in my world…
Blessed by God…
Sleep, sleep, sleep…
In heavenly peace…
While I thank you…
Dear woman…
For your daughter…
Who loves you and me…
Thank you grand mother…
For loving me…rest…
I feel you…I feel you watching over…
My shoulder…
Bless are you my sweet black queen…
For in my heart is where you still live…
With all my love, your loving grandson
Kwane Kenya Lamb…rest my sweet…
poem by whisperkwane Lamb
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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.
I needed someone to understand my ups and downs and there you were.
With sweet love and devotion, deeply touching my emotion,
I want to stop and thank you baby. I want to stop and thank you baby.
How sweet it is to be loved by you. How sweet it is to be loved by you.
I close my eyes at night wondering where would I be without you in my life.
before.
But you brighten up for me all of my days with a love so sweet in so many ways,
I want to stop and thank you baby, I just want to stop and thank you baby.
by you.
You were better for me than I was for myself,
for me, there's you and there ain't nobody else,
do,
how sweet it is to be loved by you. How sweet it is to be loved by you.
Feels so fine, how sweet it is to be loved by you.
Just like jelly baby, oh yeah, how sweet it is to be loved by you.
Just like honey to the bee, babe, how sweet it is to be loved by you.
song performed by by Michael Mcdonald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Two Songs
A BEE that was searching for sweets one day
Through the gate of a rose garden happened to stray.
In the heart of a rose he hid away,
And forgot in his bliss the light of day,
As sipping his honey he buzzed in song;
Though day was waning, he lingered long,
For the rose was sweet, so sweet.
A robin sits pluming his ruddy breast,
And a madrigal sings to his love in her nest:
'Oh, the skies they are blue, the fields are green,
And the birds in your nest will soon be seen!'
She hangs on his words with a thrill of love,
And chirps to him as he sits above,
For the song is sweet, so sweet.
A maiden was out on a summer's day
With the winds and the waves and the flowers at play;
And she met with a youth of gentle air,
With the light of the sunshine on his hair.
Together they wandered the flowers among;
They loved, and loving they lingered long,
For to love is sweet, so sweet.
BIRD of my lady's bower,
Sing her a song;
Tell her that every hour,
All the day long,
Thoughts of her come to me,
Filling my brain
With the warm ecstasy
Of love's refrain.
Little bird! happy bird!
Being so near,
Where e'en her slightest word
Thou mayest hear,
Seeing her glancing eyes,
Sheen of her hair,
Thou art in paradise, —
Would I were there.
I am so far away,
Thou art so near;
Plead with her, birdling gay,
Plead with my dear.
Rich be thy recompense,
Fine be thy fee,
If through thine eloquence
She hearken me.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Aghadoe
There's a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
There 's a green and silent glade in Aghadoe,
Where we met, my love and I, Love's fair planet in the sky,
O'er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.
There 's a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
There 's a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe,
Where I hid from the eyes of the red-coats and their spies,
That year the trouble came to Aghadoe.
O, my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
On Shaun Dhu, my mother's son in Aghadoe!
When your throat fries in hell's drouth, salt the flame be in your
mouth,
For the treachery you did in Aghadoe!
For they track'd me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
When the price was on his head in Aghadoe:
O'er the mountain, through the wood, as I stole to him with food,
Where in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.
But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe;
With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe,
There he lay, the head, my breast keeps the warmth of where 'twould
rest,
Gone, to win the traitor's gold, from Aghadoe!
I walk'd to Mallow town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
Brought his head from the gaol's gate to Aghadoe;
Then I cover'd him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn,
Like an Irish King he sleeps in Aghadoe.
O, to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe!
There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe!
Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I,
Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe.
poem by John Todhunter
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Autumn Eve
The yellow poplar leaves have strown
Thy quiet mound, thou slumberest
Where winter's winds will be unknown;
So deep thy rest,
So deep thy rest.
Sleep on, my love, thy dreams are sweet,
If thou hast dreams: the flowers I brought
I lay aside for passing feet,
Thou needest nought,
Thou needest, needest nought.
The grapes are gather'd from the hills,
The wood is piled, the song bird gone,
The breath of early evening chills;
My love, my love, sleep on;
My love, my love, sleep on
poem by Arthur Maquarie
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The Meeting of the Waters
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh! no, -- it was something more exquisite still.
'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Discretion
AH, turn your pretty eyes away!
You would not have me love again?
Love's pleasure does not live a day,
Immortal is Love's pain,
And I am tired of pain.
I have loved once--aye, once or twice;
The pleasure died, the pain lives here;
I will not look in your sweet eyes,
I will not love you, Dear,
Lest you should grow too dear.
For I am weary and afraid.
Have I not seen why life was fair,
And known how good a world God made,
How sweet the blossoms were,
How dear the green fields were?
And I have found how life was gray,
A mist-hung road, a quest in vain,
Until once more Love smiled my way
And fooled me once again,
And taught me grief again.
Now I will gather no more grief;
I only ask to see the sky,
The budding flower, the budding leaf,
And put old dreamings by,
The dreams Love tortures by.
For, being wise, I love no more;
You, if you will, snare with those eyes
Some fool who never loved before,
And teach him to be wise!
For why should you be wise?
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Sweet Afton
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forebear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding rills,
There daily I wander as noon rises high
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft as mild Ev'ning weeps over the lea
The sweet scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides,
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays,
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
song performed by by Nickel Creek
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Songs From “Prince Lucifer” II - Mother-Song
WHITE little hands!
Pink little feet!
Dimpled all over,
Sweet, sweet, sweet!
What dost thou wail for?
The unknown? the unseen?
The ills that are coming,
The joys that have been?
Cling to me closer,
Closer and closer,
Till the pain that is purer
Hath banish’d the grosser.
Drain, drain at the stream, love,
Thy hunger is freeing,
That was born in a dream, love,
Along with thy being!
Little fingers that feel
For their home on my breast,
Little lips that appeal
For their nurture, their rest!
Why, why dost thou weep, dear?
Nay, stifle thy cries,
Till the dew of thy sleep, dear,
Lies soft on thine eyes.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Afton Water
1 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
2 Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
3 My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
4 Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
5 Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
6 Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
7 Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
8 I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
9 How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
10 Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding rills;
11 There daily I wander as noon rises high,
12 My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
13 How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
14 Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
15 There oft, as mild Ev'ning sweeps over the lea,
16 The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
17 Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
18 And winds by the cot where my Mary resides,
19 How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
20 As gathering sweet flowrets she stems thy clear wave.
21 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
22 Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
23 My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
24 Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream
poem by Robert Burns
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Sweet Afton
'Flow gently, sweet Afton! amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stockdove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear,
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering Fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where, wild in the woodlands, the primroses blow;
There oft, as mild Ev'ning weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
poem by Robert Burns (1791)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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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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Mother's Loss
If I could clasp my little babe
Upon my breast to-night,
I would not mind the blowing wind
That shrieketh in affright.
Oh, my lost babe! my little babe,
My babe with dreamful eyes;
Thy bed is cold; and night wind bold
Shrieks woeful lullabies.
My breast is softer than the sod;
This room, with lighter hearth,
Is better place for thy sweet face
Than frozen mother eatrth.
Oh, my babe! oh, my lost babe!
Oh, babe with waxen hands,
I want thee so, I need thee so -
Come from thy mystic lands!
No love that, like a mother's fills
Each corner of the heart;
No loss like hers, that rends, and chills,
And tears the soul apart.
Oh, babe - my babe, my helpless babe!
I miss thy little form.
Would I might creep where thou dost sleep,
And clasp thee through the storm.
I hold thy pillow to my breast,
To bring a vague relief;
I sing the songs that soothed thy rest -
Ah me! no cheating grief.
My breathing babe! my sobbing babe!
I miss thy plaintive moan,
I cannot hear - thou art not near -
My little one, my own.
Thy father sleeps. He mourns thy loss,
But little fathers know
The pain that makes a mother toss
Through sleepless nights of woe.
My clinging babe! my nursing babe!
What knows thy father - man -
How my breasts miss thy lips' soft kiss -
None but a mother can.
Worn out, I sleep; I wake - I weep -
I sleep - hush, hush, my dear;
Sweet lamb, fear not - Oh, God! I thought -
I thought my babe was here.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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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
I needed someone to understand my ups and downs, and there you were
With sweet love and devotion
Deeply touching my emotion
I want to stop and thank you baby
I want to stop and thank you baby
How sweet it is to be loved by you
How sweet it is to be loved by you
I close my eyes at night
Wondering where would i be without you in my life
Everything i did was just a bore
Everywhere i went it seems i'd been there before
But you brighten up for me all of my days
With a love so sweet in so many ways
I want to stop and thank you baby
I just want to stop and thank you baby
How sweet it is to be loved by you
How sweet it is to be loved by you
You were better to me than i was to myself
For me, there's you and there ain't nobody else
I want to stop and thank you baby
I just want to stop and thank you baby
How sweet it is to be loved by you
How sweet it is to be loved by you
song performed by by James Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lament
PEACE, your little child is dead:
Peace, I cannot weep with you;
I have no more tears to shed;
I have mourned my baby too—
I, that ne'er was wooed or wed.
Love has looked within your eyes,
Love has filled your hungry heart;
You have borne the babe, your prize;
You have blossomed, done your part,
Though the flower faded lies.
But to me was love denied—
God had said it might not be;
Still my hungry hopes abide;
All the motherhood in me
Aches—and starves, unsatisfied.
How my soul has yearned for thee,
Sweet, sweet unborn child of mine!
How thy life would tenderly
Round thy mother's life entwine—
Hope of hopes that may not be.
How thy hands would pluck my breast!
I have felt them o'er and o'er,
And thy soft, sweet skin caressed,
Baby mine I never bore!
Did I dream so?—dreams are best.
You have nothing now to fear,
Mother; you have fondled him,
Held his pretty face so near,
Laid your lips to each soft limb—
He is dead, but he was dear.
You have something you may mourn,
Some sweet memory to kiss;
I am lonelier, more forlorn;
God has left me only this—
My sweet babe that was not born.
poem by Arthur Henry Adams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Soul Of The Anzac
THE form that was mine was brown and hard,
And thewed and muscled, and tall and straight;
And often it rode from the station yard,
And often it passed through the stockyard gate;
And often it paused on the grey skyline
'Twixt mulga and mallee or gum and pine.
There was never a task that it would not do;
There was never a labour it left undone;
But ever and always it battled through,
And took the rest that its toil had won,
And slept the sleep of the weary-limbed
Till the stars grew pale and the planets dimmed.
The form that was mine is mine no more,
For low it lies in a soldier's grave
By an alien sea on an alien shore;
And over its sleep no wattles wave,
And stars unseen on their journey creep;
But it wakes no more from its dreamless sleep.
O Mother of mine, what is is best!
And our graves are dug at the hour of birth;
And the form that slept on your shielding breast
Sleeps soundly here in the mothering earth.
And dust to dust! When our part is played,
Does it matter much where the change is made?
O Heart that was mine, you were brave and strong —
How strong, how brave, let another tell!
You loved the lilt of the bushman's song,
And loved the land that he loved so well,
And loved — ah, well! — as well she knew,
The sweet, white girl who was all to you.
O Heart of mine, though your love was great,
Yet a greater than Love is lord of man;
The rose-path wound to the garden gate,
And there the track to The Peaks began;
And though storm threatened and skies grew black,
You dared the menace and took the track.
O Heart, when the cliffs were hard to climb,
How sweet was home, and her eyes how sweet!
How sweet the moments when Love kept time,
And you and her heart gave beat for beat,
And the waters sang, and the sun-rays glanced,
And the flowers laughed out, and the saplings danced.
Yet better, O Heart, to do as you did
Than to lie on her breast, as your love-gift lies;
For how can Love prosper when Honour lies hid,
Ashamed to look Love fair and square in the eyes?
Though grave-mould be round you, grey grasses above,
You live, and shall live, evermore in her love!
O Man that I was, you were foe to Death;
For Life was fair to you — wonderful, rare;
You had your being and drew your breath
In ample spaces of earth and air;
While ever and always, by night and day,
Bright Promise pointed the Golden Way.
And yet 'twas your choice to be this thing —
A young man dead on an alien shore,
Where the immemorial surges sing
As once they sang in the days of yore,
When Greek and Trojan matched their might
And Troy shone down upon the fight.
O Man that I was, well done! Well done!
You chose the nobler, the better part;
Though a mother weep for her soldier son,
And a fair, sweet girl be sad at heart,
Yet the soul of your country glows with pride
At the deed you did and the death you died.
poem by Roderic Quinn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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