Written on a Summer Evening
The church bells toll a melancholy round,
Calling the people to some other prayers,
Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,
More harkening to the sermon's horrid sound.
Surely the mind of man is closely bound
In some blind spell: seeing that each one tears
Himself from fireside joys and Lydian airs,
And converse high of those with glory crowned.
Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,
A chill as from a tomb, did I not know
That they are dying like an outburnt lamp, -
That 'tis their sighing, wailing, ere they go
Into oblivion -that fresh flowers will grow,
And many glories of immortal stamp.
poem by John Keats
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Sonnet. Written In Disgust Of Vulgar Superstition
The church bells toll a melancholy round,
Calling the people to some other prayers,
Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,
More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound.
Surely the mind of man is closely bound
In some black spell; seeing that each one tears
Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs,
And converse high of those with glory crown'd.
Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,--
A chill as from a tomb, did I not know
That they are dying like an outburnt lamp;
That 'tis their sighing, wailing ere they go
Into oblivion; -- that fresh flowers will grow,
And many glories of immortal stamp.
poem by John Keats
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When I go
When my bells toll a melancholy saddening sound
Calling the people to lend my final end their honest prayers
In some gloominess, more dreadful condolence and chilling cares
More hearking to the sermon's horrid round
Surely the mind of every man in the mourning throng is closely bound
In some black spell; seeing that each other tears
Are shaded in self lament too, and gnawing fears
Sending a man to the grave is not a sight of glory crowned
When the bells drum my time; I should feel a damp
The same chill I felt when passing by a grave yard; did not I know
That all creatures are dying like an out burnt lamp
That all are now praying; sighing, wailing knowing their time to go
Into oblivion will come; and by their tombs fresh flowers will scent and will grow
For most humans without the glories of immortal lasting stamp
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Written on a Summer Evening
this melancholy dusk
as the rain falls into night
ever so softly
the breath of a dying woman
this bonechilling wind
trails the air
the darkened roofs
of the malay houses
add a solemnness to the place
filled with flowers
fruit trees, wild trees
a koranic verse is heard
and another cool breeze blows
the leaves rustle
the way a man shivers
big leaves, small leaves
twirl in succession
a twist dance
so cold the night
the old woman
sick bedridden woman
so long she feels she has been ill
a feeble mind
that could not make out
dawn from dusk
the old woman
her sigh
soft as the wind
bids her quiet farewell
around her grandchildren run
impervious to her pain
the leaves rustle again
the children's cry
divides her and the world
so long ago when she was a child herself
all seems a game, a film
heartfelt images of her own life
run through her mind
long lost husband, children, grandchildren
the breeze blows again
she feels its coldness
and slowly, slowly, surely
she feels herself inching
away from the alien surroundings
slowly and slowly
death to her has become something
to be embraced
she takes another weak look at the children
rewritten from:
this melancholy evening
as the rain falls into night
ever so softly
the breath of a dying woman
and as it stops
this bonechilling wind
trails the air
the darkened roofs of malay houses
add a solemn atmosphere to the place
filled with trees, fruit trees, garden trees and wild trees
a koranic verse is heard
and another cool breeze blows
a trail of ruslte
the trees waves, big leaves, small leaves
so cold the night
an old woman
old sick bedridden woman
so long she feels she has been ill
a feeble mind trailing the world
the old woman
bids farewell to the world
her sigh
soft as the wind
a solemness pervades her room
as grandchildren run around
impervious to her pain
the leaves rustle again
the children's cry
divides her and the world
so long ago when she was a child herself
all seems like a game, a film now
the breeze blows
she feels its coldness
and slowly, slowly, surely
she feels herself inching
away from the alien surroundings
slowly and slowly
death to her has become something
to be embraced
she takes another weak look at the children
inspired by
Written on a Summer Evening
Written on a Summer Evening
The church bells toll a melancholy round,
Calling the people to some other prayers,
Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,
More harkening to the sermon's horrid sound.
Surely the mind of man is closely bound
In some blind spell: seeing that each one tears
Himself from fireside joys and Lydian airs,
And converse high of those with glory crowned.
Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,
A chill as from a tomb, did I not know
That they are dying like an outburnt lamp, -
That 'tis their sighing, wailing, ere they go
Into oblivion -that fresh flowers will grow,
And many glories of immortal stamp.
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Villanelle Of Spring Bells
Bells in the town alight with spring
converse, with a concordance of new airs
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.
People emerge from winter to hear them ring,
children glitter with mischief and the blind man hears
bells in the town alight with spring.
Even he on his eyes feels the caressing
finger of Persephone, and her voice escaped from tears
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.
Bird feels the enchantment of his wing
and in ten fine notes dispels twenty cares.
Bells in the town alight with spring
warble the praise of Time, for he can bring
this season: chimes the merry heaven bears
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.
All evil men intent on evil thing
falter, for in their cold unready ears
bells in the town alight with spring
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.
Submitted by Andrew Todd
poem by Keith Douglas
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August Night
August Night
Black, starless late August sky, a sliver of moon,
golden scythe mowing down the old, harvest
time. They had forgotten to close windows and
chill will settle in old lungs, spitting of blood.
Church bells toll the day is hot and gives nothing
away, the old priest is still on holiday, the new
one is clumsy, hasn’t had a bath and a shave for
days; unspoken murmur of discontent.
The cleric sweats, there is a smell of brandy, one
of the church’s rejects? But they do take care of
their own. This isn’t swine flu, nothing to report,
just old people dying as they must.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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See That My Grave Is Kept Clean
(first releaseblind lemon jefferson)
Well theres one kind of favor Ill ask for you
Well theres one kind of favor Ill ask for you
Theres just one kind of favor Ill ask for you
You can see that my grave is kept clean.
And theres two white horses following me
And theres two white horses following me
I got two white horses following me
Waiting on my burying ground.
Did you ever hear that coffin sound
Did you ever hear that coffin sound
Did you ever hear that coffin sound
Means another poor boy is underground.
Did you ever hear them church bells toll
Did you ever hear them church bells toll
Did you ever hear them church bells toll
Means another poor boy is dead and gone.
And my heart stopped beating and my hands turned cold
And my heart stopped beating and my hands turned cold
And my heart stopped beating and my hands turned cold
Now I believe what the Bible told.
Theres just one last favor Ill ask for you
And theres one last favor Ill ask for you
Theres just one last favor Ill ask for you
See that my grave is kept clean.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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While bells at twilight toll (parody)
(with apologies to A. E. Housman)
While bells at twilight toll
this day like usual, I am without a soul;
soon in the evening I myself will be gone
whispering for the night to come on.
I cannot blame the bright light
nor your whispering back in the night;
though even if we in this night were still
before we part I would catch a chill.
[Reference: XVII “Bells in the tower at evening toll” by A. E. Housman.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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In Seven Towers Midnight Swelled
Overwhelmed by a see deep sigh
Untrodden flowers in midnight held
An open shrine of the divine
Seconds bloomed forsooth embalmed
In circling ropes of an open cord
Rising in moment’s lost accord
A spell bound heart alert alarmed
There stepped a toll the sky vast open
There stepped a toll the sky cast broken
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Martha
SEXTON! Martha's dead and gone;
Toll the bell! toll the bell!
Her weary hands their labor cease;
Good night, poor Martha,-- sleep in peace!
Toll the bell!
Sexton! Martha 's dead and gone;
Toll the bell! toll the bell!
For many a year has Martha said,
"I'm old and poor,-- would I were dead!"
Toll the bell!
Sexton! Martha's dead and gone;
Toll the bell! toll the bell!
She'll bring no more, by day or night,
Her basket full of linen white.
Toll the bell!
Sexton! Martha's dead and gone;
Toll the bell! toll the bell!
'Tis fitting she should lie below
A pure white sheet of drifted snow.
Toll the bell!
Sexton! Martha's dead and gone;
Toll the bell! toll the bell!
Sleep, Martha, sleep, to wake in light,
Where all the robes are stainless white.
Toll the bell!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Bredon Hill
In summertime on Bredon
The bells they sound so clear;
Round both the shires they ring them
In steeples far and near,
A happy noise to hear.
Here of a Sunday morning
My love and I would lie,
And see the coloured counties,
And hear the larks so high
About us in the sky.
The bells would ring to call her
In valleys miles away:
'Come all to church, good people;
Good people, come and pray.
But here my love would stay.
And I would turn and answer
Among the springing thyme,
'Oh, peal upon our wedding,
And we will hear the chime,
And come to church in time.
But when the snows at Christmas
On Bredon top were strewn,
My love rose up so early
And stole out unbeknown
And went to church alone.
They tolled the one bell only,
Groom there was none to see,
The mourners followed after,
And so to church went she,
And would not wait for me.
The bells they sound on Bredon,
And still the steeples hum.
'Come all to church, good people,' -
Oh, noisy bells, be dumb;
I hear you, I will come.
poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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Love Has Taken Its Toll
Some girls you meet seem so complete
Like they dont need nothin from you
Theyre out to show you they dont want to know you
When deep inside they do
Well, this girl didnt want me or anyone else
She was alone, thought Id give it a try
I was a young bull stompin in the field
I saw red when she walked by
Love has taken its toll, love has
Love has taken, taken its toll, oh yeah
I had to think fast, I watched her walk past
I knew I would have my way
So I swaggered up, I mean I staggered up
But I didnt have a damn thing to say
Now, two handed strategy always works well for me
So I slipped my hands around her waist
I swore it was the right move, feelin so smooth
Till she backhanded me cross my face
Love has taken its toll, love has
Love has taken, taken its toll, oh yeah
To make a long story short, she finally got caught
I had to tell her enough is enough
She said, youre just what I needed, and boy
She nearly pleaded with me not to be too rough
Love has taken its toll, love has
Love has taken, taken its toll, oh yeah
Love has taken, taken its toll, love has
Love has taken, taken its toll, oh yeah
Love has taken, taken its toll, love has
Love has taken, taken its toll, oh yeah
song performed by by Foreigner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Anthem For Doomed Youth
[ music: john lombardo/lyric: john lombardo adapts wilfred owen ]
For whom the bells toll
When sentenced to die
The stuttering rifles
Will stifle the cry
The monstrous anger
The fears rapid rattle
A desert inferno
Kids dying like cattle
Dont tell me
Were not prepared
Ive seen todays marine
Hes eighteen and hes eager
He can be quite mean
No mockries for them
No prayers or bells
The demented choirs
The wailing of shells
The boys holding candles
On untraveled roads
The fear spreads like fire
As shrapnel explodes
I think its wrong
To conscript our youth
Against their will
When plenty of our citizenry
Really like to kill
What sign posts will lead
To armageddons fires
What bugles will call them
From crowded grey shires
The women sit quiet
With death on their minds
A slow dusk descending
The drawing of blinds
Make the hunters all line up
Its their idea of fun
And let those be forgiven
Who never owned a gun
Was it him or me
Or the wailing of the dead
The laughing soldiers
Cast their lots
And you can cut the dread
song performed by by 10000 Maniacs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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4: 59 In The Early Morning
the church bells nearby
toll
for whom, for you,
some prayers
broadcast on the microphone
in this place of
little christianities,
you wash your face
put on your clothes
church this morning
i forget, we used to
have church every
morning when we
were newly married,
changes, time,
ebb, high tides,
moons and more moons,
moorings and more moorings
mornings and lots of boring mornings,
i have changed and you have changed too.
i walk, i walk away, and you will pray,
i will pray too but in other silent places
far away from us, from you, from everything
familiar
too boring, but not sad yet, we are anticipating sadness
like noontime
lunch with so much chili and pepper,
and cold rice, the one we had
for breakfast,
these kinds, you know, are not my favorites....
yet without any word, you will serve them.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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5: 16
the Catholic's church bells
toll and the cocks are crowing
the hens come down from their nests
the songs of birds start
to chatter
i am not through with these yet
these lines
these musings
the morning is calling
that i must get out from these convolutions
undecided
i stay put
sit on a chair
and for a moment
close my eyes
and then i rise
and prepare my shoes
and cap
and coat
and then i say
yes!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Bells Are Ringing
The bells are ringing
The song theyre singing
The sound is bringing the people round
They hear the instructions
They follow directions
They travel great distances to the sound
The bells are ringing
The song theyre singing
The sound is bringing the people round (the bells are ringing the song theyre singing the sound is)
They hear the instructions (bringing the people round)
They follow directions
They travel great distances to the sound (they travel great distances to the sound)
They are persuaded by the music of the bells
Theyre not responsible for anything they do
(no) the people know
(no) the way to go
The bells are ringing, they hear the sound
They hear the sound (they hear the sound)
They hear the sound (they hear the sound)
They hear the sound (they hear the sound)
They hear the sound
The bells are ringing
And everyones walking
With arms extended in a trance
Forgetting their washing
Neglecting the children
Theyre dropping all businesses at hand
A voice is telling them to act a different way
They tilt their heads so they wont miss what it will say
(no) and when its so
(no) theres this to know
The bells are ringing, they hear the sound
The bells are ringing
The song theyre singing
The sound is bringing the people round
They hear the instructions
They follow directions
They travel great distances to the sound
They are persuaded by the music of the bells
Theyre not responsible for anything they do
(no) the people know
(no) the way to go
The bells are ringing, they hear the sound
A girl with cotton in her ears
Is shielded from the bells effect
As if by hidden signal
The people turn to face her
One thousand eyes are staring
They pull away her earplugs
The bells are pealing
And theyre revealing
The simple key to happiness
It isnt evil
It isnt good
Its only what the people miss
The bells explain what theyve been lacking all along
They were disorganized and that was what was wrong
(no) and now they know
(no) the way to go
The bells are ringing, they hear the sound
The bells are ringing
The song theyre singing
The sound is bringing the people round (the bells are ringing the song theyre singing the sound is)
They hear the instructions (bringing the people round)
They follow directions
They travel great distances to the sound (the bells are ringing the song theyre singing the sound is)
The bells are ringing (bringing the people round)
The song theyre singing
The sound is bringing the people round (the bells are ringing the song theyre singing the sound is)
They hear the instructions (bringing the people round)
They follow directions
They travel great distances to the sound (the bells are ringing the song theyre singing the sound is)
The bells are ringing (bringing the people round)
The song theyre singing
The sound is bringing the people round (the bells are ringing the song theyre singing the sound is)
They hear the instructions (bringing the people round)
They follow directions
They travel great distances to the sound (they travel great distances to the sound)
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Is Not!
Round is not round
Square is not square
Paradoxical it may sound
Ultimately so it transpires!
Round of talks is not really round
Back to square is not really square!
Physical beauty is a part of beauty
Ethical beauty is real beauty
Intellectual beauty is immortal beauty
Individual's beauty, beauty of the society!
Beauty of the mind
Beauty of the soul
Need of the mankind
Ugly mind takes its toll!
Honesty is not honesty
Unless shown in trinity
Thoughts, words and deeds
Lest it leads to dishonest deeds!
Logic is not logic
Unless true to the basic
poem by Subbaraman N V
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The New Proserpine
WHERE, countless as the stars of night,
The daisies made a milky way
Across fresh lawns, and flecked with light,
Old Ilex groves walled round with bay,--
I saw thee stoop, oh lady sweet,
And with those pale, frail hands of thine
Gather the spring flowers at our feet,
Fair as some late-born Proserpine.
Yea, gathering flowers, thou might'st have been
That goddess of the ethereal brow,
Revisiting this radiant scene
From realm of dolorous shades below.
Thou might'st have been that Queen of Sighs,
Love-bound by Hades' dreadful spell;
For veiled within thy heaven-blue eyes,
There lay the Memory of Hell.
Villa Pamfili Doria.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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Address To Music
OH thou! whose soft, bewitching lyre,
Can lull the sting of pain to rest;
Oh thou! whose warbling notes inspire,
The pensive muse with visions blest;
Sweet music! let thy melting airs
Enhance my joys, and sooth my cares!
Is there enchantment in thy voice,
Thy dulcet harp, thy moving measure;
To bid the mournful mind rejoice,
To raise the fairy form of pleasure?
Yes, heav'nly maid! a charm is thine,
A magic art, a spell divine!
Sweet music! when thy notes we hear,
Some dear remembrance oft they bring,
Of friends belov'd, no longer near,
And days that flew on rapture's wing;
Hours of delight that long are past,
And dreams of joy, too bright to last!
And oft 'tis thine the soul to fire,
With glory's animating flame,
Bid valor's noble sons aspire
To win th' immortal wreath of fame
Thine too, the soft, expressive tones,
That pity, tender pity owns!
Oh harmony! celestial pow'r!
Thou syren of the melting soul!
In sorrow's reign, in pleasure's hour,
My heart shall own thy blest control;
And ever let thy moving airs,
Enhance my joys and sooth my cares!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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God And Austerity
God and Austerity
The supermarket which calls itself Forum,
has a bell tower, but now in time of
austerity no one flocks to buy anything
when its bells rings every hour.
Sunday, when I drove my wife to church
the car park was full and the bells didn’t
toll in vain; and when I looked through
the window people were singing hymns.
When time is good, god becomes distant
But now with economic times and threats
of a new war is looming, people turn to
an abstraction in time of a unsure future.
Mind, god looks after his own flock, walking
around the car park I noticed most cars
looked new, but if you have got it and want
to keep it a prayer goes a long way.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Curfew
I.
Solemnly, mournfully,
Dealing its dole,
The Curfew Bell
Is beginning to toll.
Cover the embers,
And put out the light;
Toil comes with the morning,
And rest with the night.
Dark grow the windows,
And quenched is the fire;
Sound fades into silence,--
All footsteps retire.
No voice in the chambers,
No sound in the hall!
Sleep and oblivion
Reign over all!
II.
The book is completed,
And closed, like the day;
And the hand that has written it
Lays it away.
Dim grow its fancies;
Forgotten they lie;
Like coals in the ashes,
They darken and die.
Song sinks into silence,
The story is told,
The windows are darkened,
The hearth-stone is cold.
Darker and darker
The black shadows fall;
Sleep and oblivion
Reign over all.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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