Sibyl
THIS is the glamour of the world antique:
The thyme-scents of Hymettus fill the air,
And in the grass narcissus-cups are fair.
The full brook wanders through the ferns to seek
The amber haunts of bees; and on the peak
Of the soft hill, against the gold-marged sky,
She stands, a dream from out the days gone by.
Entreat her not. Indeed, she will not speak!
Her eyes are full of dreams; and in her ears
There is the rustle of immortal wings;
And ever and anon the slow breeze bears
The mystic murmur of the songs she sings.
Entreat her not: she sees thee not, nor hears
Aught but the sights and sounds of bygone springs.
poem by John Howard Payne
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Scenes In London III - The Savoyard In Grosvenor Square
HE stands within the silent square,
That square of state, of gloom;
A heavy weight is on the air,
Which hangs as o'er a tomb.
It is a tomb which wealth and rank
Have built themselves around—
The general sympathies have shrank
Like flowers on high dry ground.
None heed the wandering boy who sings,
An orphan though so young;
None think how far the singer brings
The songs which he has sung.
None cheer him with a kindly look,
None with a kindly word;
The singer's little pride must brook
To be unpraised, unheard.
At home their sweet bird he was styled,
And oft, when days were long,
His mother called her favourite child
To sing her favourite song.
He wanders now through weary streets,
Till cheek and eye are dim;
How little sympathy he meets,
Sudden his dark brown cheek grows bright
His dark eyes fill with glee,
Covered with blossoms snowy-white,
He sees an orange tree.
No more the toil-worn face is pale,
Nor faltering step is sad;
He sees his distant native vale,
He sees it, and is glad.
He sees the squirrel climb the pine,
The doves fly through the dell,
The purple clusters of the vine;
He hears the vesper-bell.
His heart is full of hope and home,
Toil, travel, are no more;
And he has happy hours to come
Beside his father's door.
Oh, charm of natural influence!
But for thy lovely ties,
Never might the world-wearied sense
Above the present rise.
Blessed be thy magic every where,
Oh Nature, gentle mother;
How kindlier is for us thy care,
Than ours is for each other.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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In Summer Time
When summer time has come, and all
The world is in the magic thrall
Of perfumed airs that lull each sense
To fits of drowsy indolence;
When skies are deepest blue above,
And flow'rs aflush,--then most I love
To start, while early dews are damp,
And wend my way in woodland tramp
Where forests rustle, tree on tree,
And sing their silent songs to me;
Where pathways meet and path ways part,--
To walk with Nature heart by heart,
Till wearied out at last I lie
Where some sweet stream steals singing by
A mossy bank; where violets vie
In color with the summer sky,--
Or take my rod and line and hook,
And wander to some darkling brook,
Where all day long the willows dream,
And idly droop to kiss the stream,
And there to loll from morn till night--
Unheeding nibble, run, or bite--
Just for the joy of being there
And drinking in the summer air,
The summer sounds, and summer sights,
That set a restless mind to rights
When grief and pain and raging doubt
Of men and creeds have worn it out;
The birds' song and the water's drone,
The humming bees' low monotone,
The murmur of the passing breeze,
And all the sounds akin to these,
That make a man in summer time
Feel only fit for rest and rhyme.
Joy springs all radiant in my breast;
Though pauper poor, than king more blest,
The tide beats in my soul so strong
That happiness breaks forth in song,
And rings aloud the welkin blue
With all the songs I ever knew.
O time of rapture! time of song!
How swiftly glide thy days along
Adown the current of the years,
Above the rocks of grief and tears!
'Tis wealth enough of joy for me
In summer time to simply be.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Marlena
Far off in the sea is Marlena,
A land of shades and streams,
A land of many delights,
Dark and bold, thy shores, Marlena;
But green, and timorous, thy soft knolls,
Crouching behind the woodlands.
All shady thy hills; all gleaming thy springs,
Like eyes in the earth looking at you.
How charming thy haunts, Marlena!--
Oh, the waters that flow through Onimoo;
Oh, the leaves that rustle through Ponoo:
Oh, the roses that blossom in Tarma.
Come, and see the valley of Vina:
How sweet, how sweet, the Isles from Hina:
'Tis aye afternoon of the full, full moon,
And ever the season of fruit,
And ever the hour of flowers,
And never the time of rains and gales,
All in and about Marlena.
Soft sigh the boughs in the stilly air,
Soft lap the beach the billows there;
And in the woods or by the streams,
You needs must nod in the Land of Dreams.
poem by Herman Melville
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A Red Flower
Your lips are like a southern lily red,
Wet with the soft rain-kisses of the night,
In which the brown bee buries deep its head,
When still the dawn's a silver sea of light.
Your lips betray the secret of your soul,
The dark delicious essence that is you,
A mystery of life, the flaming goal
I seek through mazy pathways strange and new.
Your lips are the red symbol of a dream,
What visions of warm lilies they impart,
That line the green bank of a fair blue stream,
With butterflies and bees close to each heart!
Brown bees that murmur sounds of music rare,
That softly fall upon the langourous breeze,
Wafting them gently on the quiet air
Among untended avenues of trees.
O were I hovering, a bee, to probe
Deep down within your scented heart, fair flower,
Enfolded by your soft vermilion robe,
Amorous of sweets, for but one perfect hour!
poem by Claude McKay
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Come Ye Heavy States Of Night
Come ye heavy states of night,
Do my father's spirit right,
Soundings baleful let me borrow,
Burthening my song with sorrow.
Come sorrow come her eyes that sings,
By thee are turned into springs.
Come you virgins of the night,
That in dirges sad delight,
Choir my anthems, I do borrow
Gold nor pearl, but sounds of sorrow:
Come sorrow come her eyes that sings,
By thee are turned into springs.
poem by John Dowland
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Orara
THE STRONG sob of the chafing stream
That seaward fights its way
Down crags of glitter, dells of gleam,
Is in the hills to-day.
But far and faint, a grey-winged form
Hangs where the wild lights wane—
The phantom of a bygone storm,
A ghost of wind and rain.
The soft white feet of afternoon
Are on the shining meads,
The breeze is as a pleasant tune
Amongst the happy reeds.
The fierce, disastrous, flying fire,
That made the great caves ring,
And scarred the slope, and broke the spire,
Is a forgotten thing.
The air is full of mellow sounds,
The wet hill-heads are bright,
And down the fall of fragrant grounds
The deep ways flame with light.
A rose-red space of stream I see,
Past banks of tender fern;
A radiant brook, unknown to me
Beyond its upper turn:
The singing silver life I hear,
Whose home is in the green,
Far-folded woods of fountains clear,
Where I have never been.
Ah, brook above the upper bend,
I often long to stand
Where you in soft, cool shades descend
From the untrodden land!
Ah, folded woods, that hide the grace
Of moss and torrents strong,
I often wish to know the face
Of that which sings your song!
But I may linger, long, and look
Till night is over all:
My eyes will never see the brook,
Or sweet, strange waterfall.
The world is round me with its heat,
And toil, and cares that tire;
I cannot with my feeble feet
Climb after my desire.
But, on the lap of lands unseen,
Within a secret zone,
There shine diviner gold and green
Than man has ever known.
And where the silver waters sing
Down hushed and holy dells,
The flower of a celestial Spring,
A tenfold splendour, dwells.
Yea, in my dream of fall and brook
By far sweet forests furled,
I see that light for which I look
In vain through all the world—
The glory of a larger sky
On slopes of hills sublime,
That speak with God and morning, high
Above the ways of Time!
Ah! haply, in this sphere of change
Where shadows spoil the beam,
It would not do to climb that range
And test my radiant Dream.
The slightest glimpse of yonder place,
Untrodden and alone,
Might wholly kill that nameless grace
The charm of the unknown.
And therefore, though I look and long,
Perhaps the lot is bright
Which keeps the river of the song
A beauty out of sight
poem by Henry Kendall
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Sonnet 06
(to a brook near the village of Corston.)
As thus I bend me o'er thy babbling stream
And watch thy current, Memory's hand pourtrays
The faint form'd scenes of the departed days,
Like the far forest by the moon's pale beam
Dimly descried yet lovely. I have worn
Upon thy banks the live-long hour away,
When sportive Childhood wantoned thro' the day,
Joy'd at the opening splendour of the morn,
Or as the twilight darken'd, heaved the sigh
Thinking of distant home; as down my cheek
At the fond thought slow stealing on, would speak
The silent eloquence of the full eye.
Dim are the long past days, yet still they please
As thy soft sounds half heard, borne on the inconstant breeze.
poem by Robert Southey
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Dreams
You should have seen
Tuesdays dream
Dancing in my head
For youd have heard
A thousand words
That nobody had said
And youd have
Watched me try to run
Where dreams have
Never strayed
Heard my cries because
I know I really was afraid
Dreams, dreams
Ill never keep
My body rests
But my eyes refuse to sleep
Sights and sounds
My mind created
Far beyond the thoughts
Of which we speak
And then we danced
On silver wings
Upon a gilded thread
I heard the song the angel sings
To bless my lowered head
And at the door of paradise
My best laid plan begun
But as I turned to reach for you
My coloured night, it was gone
song performed by by Uriah Heep
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poet Tree
Rustle, little leaves above, rustle in the breeze...
Rustle, little leaves of love, rustle mid God's peace!
Rustle, every night and day, rustle every hour...
Rustle, rustle, come what may, rustle mid God's power!
Rustle, for then wise words are formed,
Great expectations made!
Through such as these, men's hearts are warmed
And children's prayers are prayed!
Rustle upon the Poet Tree,
Above the poets' ears,
So they may learn each melody,
These God-picked volunteers...
Rustle sweetly, and gently on,
Persist from age to age -
Let all God's poets write upon
Their separate nearby page...
Rustle until all humans die
And no more poets live!
Until no soul would question, 'Why? '
And there's no cause to give!
Rustle until God tells you stop,
'Dear friends, at last, be free...
'Tis time for you to fall, to drop...
Beneath the Poet Tree...
I've loved each poem, every one...
And Jesus loved them, too!
You've blessed the world! Your task is done!
Your rustle days are through...'
poem by Denis Martindale
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Eyes Waterfalling
Let me out to play
Let me find a way - to be
Let me feel the sun
Life has just begun for me
Eyes waterfalling, a world full of tears
Eyes waterfalling, but nobody hears
Laughter all around
Its lonely looking down - from here
Fuel my shallow pride
And teach me how to hide my fear
Eyes waterfalling, a world full of tears
Eyes waterfalling, but nobody hears
Theyve got control of my life
I cant break away
Theyve shaped my destiny
No use the boy in me
I go to join my friend
Hell bring me joy again
Eyes waterfalling, a world full of tears
Eyes waterfalling, but nobody hears
I lost control in the night
And drifted away
Eyes waterfalling, a world full of tears
Eyes waterfalling, but nobody hears
song performed by by Level 42
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fire Of Spring
Spring: What do you see like this?
Fire: To you
Spring: Please I entreat you
Fire: What to do? I can’t bear darkness
Spring: Naughty, not to utter thus. Come here.
Fire: May I set fire to wax candle?
Spring: Put on spectacles, other wise
No surplus will remain.
Fire: Oh! You are very miserly.
Spring: OK Think- you are lying under a tree in hard sun light-in this moment what will be your temperament?
Fire: You are upon a hand; our child is upon another, crystal blue sky in front.
Spring: I see! Have you ever seen that fair of children darken the blue sky?
Fire: Yes, I saw that in your eye, on your lip, inside the rib bone.
Spring: OK
Fire: Oh! No, do not talk; close your eyes, why so sweat scent in your hair?
Spring: At your chest too...
Fire: Surging fire on my body
Always, couldn’t you see that?
Spring: How could I see? The thunder-the flood reside on my body too.
Fire: You are carrying so much thunder and flood why did not you tell me before?
Spring: How could I say? Did I know that so much?
Fire at your heart!
Fire: Leave it. Now you have come to know.
Spring: Hey-I entreat you, do not touch my hub. Earth quake sleeps there.
Fire: Oh! Really you are very beautiful and natural, A very exciting eminent on your thigh looks.
Spring: Entreat, I entreat you, do not touch there. Earth Quake sleeps there also.
poem by Bongokobida Zakaria
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Ballade Of Midsummer Days And Nights
With a ripple of leaves and a tinkle of streams
The full world rolls in a rhythm of praise,
And the winds are one with the clouds and beams -
Midsummer days! Midsummer days!
The dusk grows vast; in a purple haze,
While the West from a rapture of sunset rights,
Faint stars their exquisite lamps upraise -
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!
The wood's green heart is a nest of dreams,
The lush grass thickens and springs and sways,
The rathe wheat rustles, the landscape gleams -
Midsummer days! Midsummer days!
In the stilly fields, in the stilly ways,
All secret shadows and mystic lights,
Late lovers murmur and linger and gaze -
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!
There's a music of bells from the trampling teams,
Wild skylarks hover, the gorses blaze,
The rich, ripe rose as with incense steams -
Midsummer days! Midsummer days!
A soul from the honeysuckle strays,
And the nightingale as from prophet heights
Sings to the Earth of her million Mays -
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!
Envoy
And it's O, for my dear and the charm that stays -
Midsummer days! Midsummer days!
It's O, for my Love and the dark that plights -
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Melody of Love
Lay me
Amongst the melody that is Mozart
Weave his notes in my lank dark hair
Spirit me to a world of horses
Pacing
Triumphant trumpets fill the air
Heartbeats to thunder glorious
Harlequin with masquerade mask
Ostrich feathers to tease the breeze with
Smile on me
Is all I ask
Fill my sky with Michelangelo
Cherubs
Outreaching hands
Offer me spark filled lightening
Whisk me to foreign lands
Let my breath savor scents of lavender
And grass that's freshly mown
Know that all is glorious
Bed of roses
In mind full dreams
You're never alone......
poem by Karen Sinclair
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The Better Part
THERE'S a grey old church on a wind-swept hill
Where three bent yew trees cower,
The gipsy roses grow there still,
And the thyme and Saint John's gold flower,
The pale blue violets that love the chalk
Cling light round the lichened stone,
And starlings chatter and grey owls talk
In the belfry o' nights alone.
It's a thousand leagues and a thousand years
From the brick-built, gas-lit town
To the little church where the wild thyme hears
The bees and the breeze of the down.
The town is crowded and hard and rough;
Let those fight in its press who will--
But the little churchyard is quiet enough,
And there's room in the churchyard still.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Fool On The Hill
Day after day, alone on the hill
The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still
But nobody wants to know him
They can see that hes just a fool
As he never gives an answer
But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning around
Well on the way, head in a cloud
The man of a thousand voices talking percetly loud
But nobody ever hears him
Or the sound he appears to make
And he never seems to notice
But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning around
And nobody seems to like him
They can tell what he wants to do
And he never shows his feelings
But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning around
He never listen to them
He knows that theyre the fools
They dont like him
The fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning around
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Grass-flower
For years I have been walking
On the familiar
And not-so-familiar
Paths of the city.
The hissing of the
High-tech automobiles,
The rustle of the brisk feet
On the cemented pavements,
The whispers of walkers and
The whistles of the traffic police
Independent of the honking of
Speeding vehicles pierce my ears
And the extra-redness of the gulmohar
From the side-walks hits my eyes.
Over the years
Perhaps I have not cared
To discover you,
My pretty grass-flower,
I now suddenly behold
You, in full-bloom
At a season-less time
Right at my backyard.
As time changes its shade,
Dusty and sweaty days
Get fossilized into
Unidentified pages of history
And starry and lonely nights
Evaporate together
With the morning dew-drops.
You, my miniature grass-flower
Metamorphose yourself before my eyes
Into the significant dimension
Of Krishna’s cosmic image,
Full of ethereal magnificence
And earthly fragrance.
You pervade the vastness
Of my world, my sky, my dream
In a helpless moment.
Union
The bride walks down
the lonely aisle.
But in the distance
she sees his smile.
Slowly she approaches
and knows full well
that in that smile
is where she'll dwell.
The groom stands proudly,
his eyes aglow.
And in the distance
with steps so slow
he sees the one
whose heart is his
to have and to hold.
And in the union
there lies the gold.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Sonnet XIV: Come, Soft Aeolian Harp
Come, soft Aeolian harp, while zephyr plays
Along the meek vibration of thy strings,
As twilight's hand her modest mantle brings,
Blending with sober grey, the western blaze!
O! prompt my Phaon's dreams with tend'rest lays,
Ere night o'er shade thee with its humid wings,
While the lorn Philomel his sorrow sings
In leafy cradle, red with parting rays!
Slow let thy dulcet tones on ether glide,
So steals the murmur of the am'rous dove;
The mazy legions swarm on ev'ry side,
To lulling sounds the sunny people move!
Let not the wise their little world deride,
The smallest sting can wound the breast of Love.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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Verses on a Butterfly
Fair Child of Sun and Summer! we behold
With eager eyes thy wings bedropp'd with gold;
The purple spots that o'er thy mantle spread,
The sapphire's lively blue, the ruby's red,
Ten thousand various blended tints surprise,
Beyond the rainbow's hues or peacock's eyes:
Not Judah's king in eastern pomp array'd,
Whose charms allur'd from far the Sheban maid,
High on his glitt'ring throne, like you could shine
(Nature's completest miniature divine):
For thee the rose her balmy buds renews,
And silver lillies fill their cups with dews;
Flora for thee the laughing fields perfumes,
For thee Pomona sheds her choicest blooms,
Soft Zephyr wafts thee on his gentlest gales
O'er Hackwood's sunny hill and verdant vales;
For thee, gay queen of insects! do we rove
From walk to walk, from beauteous grove to grove;
And let the critics know, whose pedant pride
And awkward jests our sprightly sport deride:
That all who honours, fame, or wealth pursue,
Change but the name of things--they hunt for you.
poem by Joseph Warton
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That Word - from a poem by Kabir
What is there to say
about that word?
Nothing. It is itself enough.
Everything. For everything springs from it;
whatever you speak, is praise of it.
Seek it. But where to seek it?
On a clear night, go outside;
see the stars of the Milky Way shimmering there.
Somewhere inside yourself, you will be near
that word.
When you have found that place
near it, guard it:
love its mystery – always beyond;
love its reality – all that springs from it;
writers write from it;
musicians sing it, play from it;
dancers dance from it;
renunciates owning nothing in their snowy caves
are full of it;
even the greedy seek it everywhere;
even disbelievers have to say it, to deny it;
we live in it, move in it, owe our being to it;
yet it means nothing to you until you seek it;
for inside that word,
everything is full of light;
there is enough of that light in one human heart
to light the whole world.
Breathe in that word;
breathe out that word.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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