The Old Burying-Ground
Our vales are sweet with fern and rose,
Our hills are maple-crowned;
But not from them our fathers chose
The village burying-ground.
The dreariest spot in all the land
To Death they set apart;
With scanty grace from Nature's hand,
And none from that of Art.
A winding wall of mossy stone,
Frost-flung and broken, lines
A lonesome acre thinly grown
With grass and wandering vines.
Without the wall a birch-tree shows
Its drooped and tasselled head;
Within, a stag-horned sumach grows,
Fern-leafed, with spikes of red.
There, sheep that graze the neighboring plain
Like white ghosts come and go,
The farm-horse drags his fetlock chain,
The cow-bell tinkles slow.
Low moans the river from its bed,
The distant pines reply;
Like mourners shrinking from the dead,
They stand apart and sigh.
Unshaded smites the summer sun,
Unchecked the winter blast;
The school-girl learns the place to shun,
With glances backward cast.
For thus our fathers testified,
That he might read who ran,
The emptiness of human pride,
The nothingness of man.
They dared not plant the grave with flowers,
Nor dress the funeral sod,
Where, with a love as deep as ours,
They left their dead with God.
The hard and thorny path they kept
From beauty turned aside;
Nor missed they over those who slept
The grace to life denied.
Yet still the wilding flowers would blow,
The golden leaves would fall,
The seasons come, the seasons go,
And God be good to all.
Above the graves the' blackberry hung
In bloom and green its wreath,
And harebells swung as if they rung
The chimes of peace beneath.
The beauty Nature loves to share,
The gifts she hath for all,
The common light, the common air,
O'ercrept the graveyard's wall.
It knew the glow of eventide,
The sunrise and the noon,
And glorified and sanctified
It slept beneath the moon.
With flowers or snow-flakes for its sod,
Around the seasons ran,
And evermore the love of God
Rebuked the fear of man.
We dwell with fears on either hand,
Within a daily strife,
And spectral problems waiting stand
Before the gates of life.
The doubts we vainly seek to solve,
The truths we know, are one;
The known and nameless stars revolve
Around the Central Sun.
And if we reap as we have sown,
And take the dole we deal,
The law of pain is love alone,
The wounding is to heal.
Unharmed from change to change we glide,
We fall as in our dreams;
The far-off terror at our side
A smiling angel seems.
Secure on God's all-tender heart
Alike rest great and small;
Why fear to lose our little part,
When He is pledged for all?
O fearful heart and troubled brain
Take hope and strength from this,--
That Nature never hints in vain,
Nor prophesies amiss.
Her wild birds sing the same sweet stave,
Her lights and airs are given
Alike to playground and the grave;
And over both is Heaven.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Related quotes
A Rose To Remember....
i am reading about the death of a rose
i am reflecting about
death of freedom
it is all about a rose, a wilting rose, a brown rose,
a dry rose
each petal falling softly on the ground
a dry ground full of sand and pebbles
all footprints covered
abandoned, i am talking
about the death of a rose, the death of the freedom of the rose
the death of freedom, the rose of death, the freedom of death,
is it you now that i talk about? that i must remember?
have i met you before when i was but a thorn, a worm, a leaf?
was i the sand
a pebble, the wind? will you be a rose forever?
is there death in you?
i feel the wind, i smell the rose,
there is no death....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rita Rose
I suppose Rita Rose
Now that you found someone new
I don’t mean anything to you
I suppose Rita Rose
That since I left to fight a war
You don’t need me anymore
I suppose Rita Rose
Now that I’m back again
You want me to forget when
It was me that you chose
Just who are you trying to expose
I suppose Rita Rose
Everybody knows
I ran out on you
I suppose Rita Rose
You’ve already chose
A good alibi too
I suppose Rita Rose
It’s all spelled out in prose
What I’m supposed to do
Well I got news for you
I got feeling too
I’ll just turn around
Both feet on the ground
And walk away from you
poem by Alfred Ramos
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Multiple Choices That Saved Me
You Chose:
………… to leave heaven and come to earth
………… to be born by a virgin birth
………… not to give in to temptation
………… but to die for my salvation.
You Chose:
………… not Your way but Your Fathers will
………… to climb the steep Calvary hill
………… to hang upon that cross for me
………… to give Your life and set me free
You Chose:
………… for me, to give Your final breath
………… to enter into the realms of death
………… to conquer death that I might live
………… to cry out loud, 'Father forgive'
Kodaikanal Hills (Tamilnadu)
We leapt over the vales
of the Kodaikanal hills,
crying in glee
and gazing with raptures,
as our bus was on it's winding course.
The hills were crowned
with a seraphic charm.
Glancing that white silver-cascade,
the shrill cries of our girls
rent the air.
They ran into the refulgent showers.
The tipplers danced, and scared the girls
but teased them not.
The mist shrouded the pillar-rocks
and filled to brim the suicide-spot;
we peeped deep
into the misty ravine down
and got lost in parlous dreams.
'Oh, we were chased in a hazy air
by an avalanche of mist
on that gorgeous lake!
The girls felt aghast
pedaled the shallop fast
into the bliss of life.'
Fruits of varied hues and tastes
enchained our tongues.
A free for all in the realm of flowers
enticed our girls.
We came back home leaving our souls
craving, in the pure air of the hills.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Night Close
Under night close
Death rose to greet me.
I turned; looked back,
Though nothing beckoned -
No one cried or mourned.
Scorned by all
- My fellow race -
I shed the byes to empty space, then
Gazed upon the stony face
Of Death anon, and
So chose our treaty.
Line of Death
death death death death death death death death death death death
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Enna
City where the hills recede
land at the horizons' end
what saint or poet did you breed
oh Enna.
Lo, the smiling vales descend
from the bird-enamored walls
that band so many graces in
oh Enna.
Fair and faintly green your hills
fall away, behind them rise
others fairer, fainter still
oh Enna.
O'er the chime-enchanted stair
a doughty brace of butterflies
agitates the drowsy air
oh Enna.
On your steepy mountainsides
light her foot and dry her tear
the new Persephone arrives
oh Enna.
And when the golden sun goes down
from hill to vale to hill ring round
the bells that call your faithful home
oh Enna? .
Then the clouds fill up the vales
and cool the throat and moisten well
the sere recesses of the soul
oh Enna.
City where the hills recede
land at the horizons' end
what saint or poet did you breed
oh Enna?
poem by Morgan Michaels
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A Perfect Rose
A Perfect Rose
So deep and pure, the one I chose
From this earthly garden. a perfect rose,
Fragile, yet it only bends,
In times of rain are days of winds.
Close to my heart, this rose I hold,
Its' beauty to me like solid gold,
A perfect rose that means so much,
That I am thrilled by a single touch.
A perfect rose it has been said,
Is the symbol of love, a long stem red,
No others can or will compete
For my perfect rose so soft and sweet.
My love for the rose, a beauty still,
Has not faded and never will,
This rose I hold, the one I chose,
My loving wife, a perfect rose.
Richard Netherland Cook
poem by Richard Netherland Cook
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A War Raging On
There's a war raging on
Though I know not where
There are people fighting
Though they do not care
Soldiers are fighting
Mothers are crying
Fathers are preaching
For their sons are dying,
For their is a war killing
And no one really cares.
There's bullets shooting
As I see the guns loading
And there's planes flying
For I feel the bombs exploding,
I see war and I see blood
And death upon the sand
There's hunger and death
I still see in His hand,
For there's people killing
As I see the blood flowing.
There's soldiers marching
For I hear them coming
The killing is flowing
For I see the children running,
There are people being shot
Poets getting caught
Murderers being sought
Lessons again being taught,
For there is a war raging
As the soldiers are hunting.
There is a war coming
For I hear the horns blowing
There is more killing coming
For I see the hate growing,
Children are getting killed
Burying bombs in the fields
Land is being destroyed
Mountains are becoming hills,
For there is a war coming
For I see the hate showing.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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(Love Poem) Bitter Sweet Rose
Bitter sweet rose will you be mine?
Or am I wasting my time?
Bitter sweet rose you smell divine.
Do you have a succulent kiss?
Is it something I've already missed?
Bitter sweet rose what gives?
Is it how we must live?
Bitter sweet rose will you answer my questions?
Are you devote?
Do you stray when your bored?
Will you doubt?
Is what you want something more?
Bitter sweet rose are you keeping score?
Will you try something new?
Will you lock your door?
Do your lips taste like dew?
Bitter sweet rose do you want to go?
Do you love the snow?
Is this right?
Is this what you want tonight?
Bitter sweet rose, oh my bitter rose.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Wedding of the Rose and the Lotos
The wide Pacific waters
And the Atlantic meet.
With cries of joy they mingle,
In tides of love they greet.
Above the drowned ages
A wind of wooing blows: —
The red rose woos the lotos,
The lotos woos the rose . . .
The lotos conquered Egypt.
The rose was loved in Rome.
Great India crowned the lotos:
(Britain the rose's home).
Old China crowned the lotos,
They crowned it in Japan.
But Christendom adored the rose
Ere Christendom began . . .
The lotos speaks of slumber:
The rose is as a dart.
The lotos is Nirvana:
The rose is Mary's heart.
The rose is deathless, restless,
The splendor of our pain:
The flush and fire of labor
That builds, not all in vain. . . .
The genius of the lotos
Shall heal earth's too-much fret.
The rose, in blinding glory,
Shall waken Asia yet.
Hail to their loves, ye peoples!
Behold, a world-wind blows,
That aids the ivory lotos
To wed the red red rose!
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Land of Fairy Tales
Together they wandered hand in hand
Across the beauty of the land
Until they saw the golden sand
From England's hills and vales.
And there together they would lie
unnoticed by the passer-by
Whispering love, sweet and shy
Just like in fairy tales.
And sometimes in the evening hue
They'd sail the sea of silvery blue,
In those days when love was true
On England's shores and dales.
Before their eyes, a magic sight
As North East stars lit up the night
On a coast of sheer delight
Oh 'Land of fairy tales'.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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A Ballad Maker
ONCE I loved a maiden fair,
Over the hills and jar away,
Lands she had and lovers to spare,
Over the hills and far away.
And I was stooped and troubled sore,
And my face was pale, and the coat I wore
Was thin as my supper the night before
Over the hills and far away.
Once I passed in the Autumn late,
Over the hills and jar away,
Her bawn and barn and painted gate,
Over the hills and jar away.
She was leaning there in the twilight space,
Sweet sorrow was on her fair young face,
And her wistful eyes were away from the place,
Over the hills and jar away.
Maybe she thought as she watched me come,
Over the hills and jar away,
With my awkward stride and my face so glum,
Over the hills and jar away.
Spite of his stoop, he still is young,
They say he goes the Shee among,
Ballads he makes; I've heard them sung
Over the hills and jar away.
She gave me good-night in gentle wise,
Over the hills and jar away,
Shyly lifting to mine, dark eyes,
Over the hills and jar away.
What could I do but stop and speak,
And she no longer proud, but meek?
She plucked me a rose like her wild-rose cheek-
Over the hills and jar away.
To-morrow Mavourneen a sleeveen weds,
Over the hills and jar away,
With corn in haggard and cattle in sheds,
Over the hills and jar away.
And I who have lost her, the dear, the rare-
Well, I got me this ballad to sing at the fair,
Twill bring enough money to drown my care,
Over the hills and jar away.
poem by Padraic Colum
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It is death
It is death.
It is nothing
More than death,
The burying of a love,
The burying of a lost love,
A love that never came to pass,
A love that never trespassed
The world.
poem by Harriet James
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Buy Me a Rose
Buy me a rose, Buy me a rose
Buy me sweet reasons to be forever close
Tender me with words propose
Wear my heart on your sleeves
for i am the rose you chose
Reveal your gentle pose
Make me your fair lady before chairs and doors
Buy me a rose, Buy me a rose
And out for a dozen for me he goes
Past mountain high and wild river flows
I must be i suppose
His romantic quest and cause
Buy me a rose, Buy me a rose
Venture deeper into me
make me eternally yours
Share with me the gift my belly grows
suddenly loving me his world not knows
And in to the distance sails as the new wind blows
Buy me a rose, Buy me a rose
Better yet maybe not
a precious one in me grows
poem by Wes Mbanje
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Own hate - hate growN
Spasms of freedom, build into a gun - Fighting for the land belonging to your father, and his fathers father, yet killed when the field was seized - Daughters without fathers, sons with far less brothers, debt by death to the dictators - The rulers of decay, their way, they know only one way - The war brought forth, the one too civil, against the people of your country - Own hate, hate growN - The land, by which you are to weak, alone to stand - The have to believe, by the suffering of the innocent, the sadness in sorrow, is peace - By the driven machine, the slaughter house of death, the king of war - Victory By The Blood On Your Hands.
poem by Unic Cjonr
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An Indian at the Burial-Place of his Fathers.
It is the spot I came to seek,--
My fathers' ancient burial-place
Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,
Withdrew our wasted race.
It is the spot--I know it well--
Of which our old traditions tell.
For here the upland bank sends out
A ridge toward the river-side;
I know the shaggy hills about,
The meadows smooth and wide,--
The plains, that, toward the southern sky,
Fenced east and west by mountains lie.
A white man, gazing on the scene,
Would say a lovely spot was here,
And praise the lawns, so fresh and green,
Between the hills so sheer.
I like it not--I would the plain
Lay in its tall old groves again.
The sheep are on the slopes around,
The cattle in the meadows feed,
And labourers turn the crumbling ground,
Or drop the yellow seed,
And prancing steeds, in trappings gay,
Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way.
Methinks it were a nobler sight
To see these vales in woods arrayed,
Their summits in the golden light,
Their trunks in grateful shade,
And herds of deer, that bounding go
O'er hills and prostrate trees below.
And then to mark the lord of all,
The forest hero, trained to wars,
Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall,
And seamed with glorious scars,
Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare
The wolf, and grapple with the bear.
This bank, in which the dead were laid,
Was sacred when its soil was ours;
Hither the artless Indian maid
Brought wreaths of beads and flowers,
And the gray chief and gifted seer
Worshipped the god of thunders here.
But now the wheat is green and high
On clods that hid the warrior's breast,
And scattered in the furrows lie
The weapons of his rest;
And there, in the loose sand, is thrown
Of his large arm the mouldering bone.
Ah, little thought the strong and brave
Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth--
Or the young wife, that weeping gave
Her first-born to the earth,
That the pale race, who waste us now,
Among their bones should guide the plough.
They waste us--ay--like April snow
In the warm noon, we shrink away;
And fast they follow, as we go
Towards the setting day,--
Till they shall fill the land, and we
Are driven into the western sea.
But I behold a fearful sign,
To which the white men's eyes are blind;
Their race may vanish hence, like mine,
And leave no trace behind,
Save ruins o'er the region spread,
And the white stones above the dead.
Before these fields were shorn and tilled,
Full to the brim our rivers flowed;
The melody of waters filled
The fresh and boundless wood;
And torrents dashed and rivulets played,
And fountains spouted in the shade.
Those grateful sounds are heard no more,
The springs are silent in the sun;
The rivers, by the blackened shore,
With lessening current run;
The realm our tribes are crushed to get
May be a barren desert yet.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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Prologue
My friends, we sing Canadian themes,
For in them we proudly glory;
Her lakes, her rivers and her streams,
Worthy of renown in story.
And in these leaves we hope is strewn
Some wheat among the chaff
And maple boughs, by rude axe hewn
Where one may find a rustic staff
To help him o'er the rugged lines.
Some see no beauties near to home,
But do admire the distant far -
They always love abroad to roam,
View glory in but far off star;
But, let it never be forgot
That distant hills, when closer seen,
Are after all a barren spot -
Not like your own hills, clad in green.
You'll find they are but idle dreams,
To search for happiness afar:
At home there's lovely lakes and streams,
Remain content now where you are.
At us we hope you will not rage
Because we sing of local charms
In each varied town and village,
As well as round our rural farms.
But our address it must be brief,
So we bid you now all adieu;
But, of our book, pray read each leaf,
Until the whole you have gone through;
Each one doth know it is not wise,
Though our song may not be vocal,
Chants of our home for to despise,
But prize them 'cause they are local.
poem by James McIntyre
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Song of The Rose
F Zeus chose us a King of the flowers in his mirth,
He would call to the rose, and would royally crown it;
For the rose, ho, the rose! is the grace of the earth,
Is the light of the plants that are growing upon it!
For the rose, ho, the rose! is the eye of the flowers,
Is the blush of the meadows that feel themselves fair,
Is the lightning of beauty that strikes through the bowers
On pale lovers that sit in the glow unaware.
Ho, the rose breathes of love! ho, the rose lifts the cup
To the red lips of Cypris invoked for a guest!
Ho, the rose having curled its sweet leaves for the world
Takes delight in the motion its petals keep up,
As they laugh to the wind as it laughs from the west.
Erase
From Bye Bye Birdie soundtrack
JA:
I was never crazy for flowers
I confess that nothing left me colder.
I could watch a daisy for hours
and all i'd feel was several hours older.
Lilacs or lilies,
anything you please
all that they did was make me shrug or sneeze.
But now i love each blossom that i see
for a lovely little rose loves me.
Now my life is Rosie,
since i found my Rosie.
With a girl like rosie
how could i be blue?
Hand in hand we'll mosey
Me and little Rosie.
We will be so cozy
by a fire built for two.
Oh i once heard a poem that goes
A rose is a rose is a rose.
But i don't agree
Take it from me,
There's one rose sweeter than any that grows
That's my Rosie.
I'm so glad you chose me.
Life is one, sweet, beautiful song
to me.
JA: Now my life is Rosie
VW: Oh, we'll be happy I know.
JA: Since I found my Rosie.
VW: Off to the preacher we'll go.
JA: With a girl like ROsie
VW: So how could we
JA: How could I be blue?
VW: Be blue?
VW: Oh we'll have us a home out west.
A nice, little split, level nest.
And in every room, roses in bloom
JA: but there's one Rose sweeter than all of the rest.
JA: And that's my Rosie
Both:
I'm so glad you chose me.
Life is one, sweet, beautiful song.
If love is right, then, what could be wrong?
Life is one, sweet, beautiful song to me.
song performed by by Vanessa Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Robert Fisher
My love is like Lake Victoria towards your heart and,
I deeply love you Robert Fisher;
But the sun rested for you to be in my village.
You are the medicine man on my love and,
I am your sweet patient in lovers land!
For the ship landed at my village without a clue.
You have my father's name and, i love you;
Because your lips are the sweet honey comb to my taste.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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