Middle Harbour
Lonely wonder, delight past hoping!
Sky-line broken by stirring trees,
Grey rocks hither and shoreward sloping,
Silent bracken about my knees.
Dusky scrub where the sunlight splashes,
Glimmer of waters barely seen
Here the hope that was dust and ashes
Leaps and flashes in flames of green.
Through the boughs that are still before me,
Misty blue of the harbour hills;
Mighty Spirit of Earth who bore me,
Here the peace of thy love distils.
Fools have harried me; hell has driven,
Bidding me toil for its fading shows:
Back I spring to your arms, forgiven,
Back to the truth that a dreamer knows.
Gold and glory and fleeting pleasure
Pass in dust or as melting cloud:
You can dower with eternal treasure
Heart uplifted and head unbowed.
Arms outstretched, and the hill-top hushes;
Long deep breath, and the whole scene fades;
Sweeping homeward, my soul outrushes,
My heart the heart of the world invades.
Fleshly trammels no longer bind me,
Joyous, forgetting that such things be;
Time and space have been left behind me,
Brother of stars, I am soaring, free.
Cramped no more, I exult, extended,
All I think of I hold within;
Secret surety of vision splendid
Makes me one with my lordly kin.
Out of the vast I return, and slowly
Into the prison of sense I glide,
Yet the splendour is gone not wholly,
Yet the love and the peace abide.
Soft wind rustles the leaves, and brightly
Wavers the light on the ferns and trees;
Water-ripples are laughing lightly,
Played upon by the sun and breeze.
There the robin, a friendly fellow,
Clings to a sapling stem and waits
Just where I noted his breast of yellow
Ere I ventured beyond the gates.
Only a moment, as clocks can reckon,
Dwells the soul at that height of heights;
Ah, but I know why the wood-gods beckon,
Why the stars are as beacon lights.
poem by John Le Gay Brereton
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Related quotes
Breathings Of Spring
Thou giv'st me flowers, thou giv'st me songs; bring back
The love that I have lost!
WHAT wak'st thou, Spring? sweet voices in the woods,
And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute;
Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes,
The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute,
Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee,
Ev'n as our hearts may be.
And the leaves greet thee, Spring! the joyous leaves,
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade,
Where each young spray a rosy flush receives,
When thy south-wind hath pierced the whispery shade,
And happy murmurs, running thro' the grass,
Tell that thy footsteps pass.
And the bright waters they too hear thy call,
Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their sleep!
Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall
Makes melody, and in the forests deep,
Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray
Their windings to the day.
And flowers the fairy-peopled world of flowers!
Thou from the dust hast set that glory free,
Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours,
And pencilling the wood-anemone;
Silent they seem yet each to thoughtful eye
Glows with mute poesy.
But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring!
The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs?
Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing,
Restorer of forgotten harmonies!
Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou art,
What wak'st thou in the heart?
Too much, oh! there too much! we know not well
Wherefore it should be thus, yet rous'd by thee,
What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell,
Gush for the faces we no more may see!
How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone,
By voices that are gone!
Looks of familiar love, that never more,
Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet,
Past words of welcome to our household door,
And vanish'd smiles, and sounds of parted feet
Spring! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees,
Why, why reviv'st thou these?
Vain longings for the dead! why come they back
With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms?
Oh! is it not, that from thine earthly track
Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs?
Yes! gentle spring; no sorrow dims thine air,
Breath'd by our lov'd ones there!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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In The Winter Woods
WINTER forests mutely standing
Naked on your bed of snow,
Wide your knotted arms expanding
To the biting winds that blow,
Nought ye heed of storm or stress,
Stubborn, silent, passionless.
Buried is each woodland treasure,
Gone the leaves and mossy rills,
Gone the birds that filled with pleasure
All the valleys and the hills;
Ye alone of all that host
Stand like soldiers at your post.
Grand old trees, the words ye mutter,
Nodding in the frosty wind,
Wake some thoughts I cannot utter,
But which haunt the heart and mind,
With a meaning, strange and deep,
As of visions seen in sleep.
Something in my inmost thinking
Tells me I am one with you,
For a subtle bond is linking
Nature's offspring through and through,
And your spirit like a flood
Stirs the pulses of my blood.
While I linger here and listen
To the crackling boughs above,
Hung with icicles that glisten
As if kindling into love,
Human heart and soul unite
With your majesty and might.
Horizontal, rich with glory,
Through the boughs the red sun's rays
Clothe you as some grand life-story
Robes an aged man with praise,
When, before his setting sun,
Men recount what he has done.
But the light is swiftly fading,
And the wind is icy cold,
And a mist the moon is shading,
Pallid in the western gold;
In the night-winds still ye nod,
Sentinels of Nature's God.
Now with laggard steps returning
To the world from whence I came,
Leave I all the great West burning
With the day that died in flame, .
And the stars, with silver ray,
Light me on my homeward way.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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To A Successful Man
(WHAT THE GHOSTS SAID.)
And after all the labour and the pains,
After the heaping up of gold on gold,
After success that locked your feet in chains,
And left you with a heart so tired and old,
Strange-is it not?-to find your chief desire
Is what you might have had for nothing then-
The face of love beside a cottage fire
And friendly laughter with your fellow-men?
You were so rich when fools esteemed you poor.
You ruled a field that kings could never buy:
The whisper of the sea was at your door,
And all those quiet stars were in your sky,
The nook of ferns below the breathless wood
Where one poor book could unlock Paradise. . . .
What will you give us now for that lost good?
Better forget. You cannot pay the price.
You left them for the fame in which you trust.
But youth, and hope-did you forsake them too?
Courage! When dust at length returns to dust,
In your last dreams they may come back to you.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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The Birch-Tree at Loschwitz
At Loschwitz above the city
The air is sunny and chill;
The birch-trees and the pine-trees
Grow thick upon the hill.
Lone and tall, with silver stem,
A birch-tree stands apart;
The passionate wind of spring-time
Stirs in its leafy heart.
I lean against the birch-tree,
My arms around it twine;
It pulses, and leaps, and quivers,
Like a human heart to mine.
One moment I stand, then sudden
Let loose mine arms that cling:
O God! the lonely hillside,
The passionate wind of spring!
Heart Of The Rose
(graham russell)
A long time ago, from the valley of the sun
Came the holy power,
When the gods were one
Searching for a new home,
Searching for this land
Guided by the stars, and a vision they had seen
The pillars of the temple,
In these hills of green
Buried deep inside for only us to find
(chorus)
It is the roar of the wind,
The power of the sun
The strength of a thousand bows
And those who near it again, will fear it again
And its here in the heart of the rose
Painted in the sky was the moment to awake
All that lay within you,
As this dawn should break
With this force awoken, none can stand before
This is the hour, now is the time
Driven by the purest love, I give you mine
All that we must be, is everything we see
(chorus)
Our love, has brought us both together
And its our love that will go on forever
There is no love that can become as one
Before its time
(chorus)
It is the trees in the earth,
It is the rivers that run
And through us this secret flows
And now our destiny calls,
Youll remember it all
Our love for the heart of the rose
song performed by by Air Supply
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Joy Of Spring
The sky above is shinning blue today,
And sun beams are playfully kissing the earth,
Flowers rise proud its stalks and tell us their stories,
A sleeping nature getting back to life in its glorious way.
The peace of grass rustling in the wind,
Is melting with the twitter of happy birds in trees,
Spring time has come to us again,
A spectacular view my eyes enjoy today.
Trees turn green are budding as life rebirth,
The exuberance of orange, blue, purple, yellow came,
And warm my heart in misterious ways,
With such variety of colours this spring make bold my soul in grace.
New beginnings in our lives have start,
Brought by the refreshment of a sunny march day,
I will never forget what spring time means,
Joy of spring took my breath away again.
poem by Cristina Teodor
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Hell Bent (Part II)
Part II
I kiss the dirt filled pavement floor of my spirit war
Imprisoned by my own understanding
I grope for reasons to lift my eyes to search the sky and ensue this gasp like breathing
I try to hold up high those eternal things
With untethered soul ties and a faith that keeps breaking
I fail to find
The purpose
That will hold this rhythm inside
This aching chest of mine
But I still try
I run head long into a thick wall of rising flames
I crash blistered and broken, angry that my soul remains unchanged
I hurl myself against the Hell's cast iron gates
I howl into the darkness of this spirit war in a full bloody rage
Intent on destroying my soul, mind, and faith
That I might still be saved
I play with Hell fire and dare the flames to brand me
I dance within its heat and faster still as it sends up smoke to claim me
I push past Hell's cast iron gates to face my fears that I might be set free
I call forth this torn up heart from a severed faith that I might find reprieve
I dive into a lake of fire and embrace its suffocating heat
I tread the fiery water that the pain from its flames might deliver me
Exhausted, I lay my soul upon the smoldering coals of the deep
Failing, I sever ties to my spiritual side in hopes of finding peace…
As I fill up with emptiness
and fade from the burning of this consciousness,
I dream
Of every color imaginable bursting forth in Creation's sky
Its strength radiating, calling me forth to rise
To climb out of these flaming depths
With scar filled arms and burning lips
A branded soul and a spirit quenched
Standing upon the ashes of my conquered fears
Overcome within Hell's depths
In a new born sky, I find the Sun
And gently kiss her lips and rest my weary head as She grants me Her forgiveness
Surrendering to Her all my wounds and spirit wars, Her love soothing these judgment scars
I breathe in Her fiery essence, melt into Her arms as she reclaims my heart from the flaming depths
This is my redemption…
I awaken to lift my spirit head and gaze up through the suffocating fire
Yearning for the sun, the heat tempting me to surrender
I collapse.
I take hold of my blistered soul and gather faith's broken pieces
Heat threatening to overtake me
I close my eyes and envision sunlight piercing my darkened sky
And I try…
poem by God Diaries
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Peccavi, Domine
O Power to whom this earthly clime
Is but an atom in the whole,
O Poet-heart of Space and Time,
O Maker and Immortal Soul,
Within whose glowing rings are bound,
Out of whose sleepless heart had birth
The cloudy blue, the starry round,
And this small miracle of earth:
Who liv'st in every living thing,
And all things are thy script and chart,
Who rid'st upon the eagle's wing,
And yearnest in the human heart;
O Riddle with a single clue,
Love, deathless, protean, secure,
The ever old, the ever new,
O Energy, serene and pure.
Thou, who art also part of me,
Whose glory I have sometime seen,
O Vision of the Ought-to-be,
O Memory of the Might-have-been,
I have had glimpses of thy way,
And moved with winds and walked with stars,
But, weary, I have fallen astray,
And, wounded, who shall count my scars?
O Master, all my strength is gone;
Unto the very earth I bow;
I have no light to lead me on;
With aching heart and burning brow,
I lie as one that travaileth
In sorrow more than he can bear;
I sit in darkness as of death,
And scatter dust upon my hair.
The God within my soul hath slept,
And I have shamed the nobler rule;
O Master, I have whined and crept;
O Spirit, I have played the fool.
Like him of old upon whose head
His follies hung in dark arrears,
I groan and travail in my bed,
And water it with bitter tears.
I stand upon thy mountain-heads,
And gaze until mine eyes are dim;
The golden morning glows and spreads;
The hoary vapours break and swim.
I see thy blossoming fields, divine,
Thy shining clouds, thy blessed trees--
And then that broken soul of mine--
How much less beautiful than these!
O Spirit, passionless, but kind,
Is there in all the world, I cry,
Another one so base and blind,
Another one so weak as I?
O Power, unchangeable, but just,
Impute this one good thing to me,
I sink my spirit to the dust
In utter dumb humility.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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The Song Of Life
Sing not of Rest
For heart, or brain, or the strong soul’s emotion
Beneath the shadow of Eternal peace!
There is no rest in Nature or surcease
Of Law, and Labour, in unceasing motion.
Sing not of Rest!
Sing not of Peace
On earth, or in the realms beyond our dreaming!
Progress and Retrogression all things draw
Within the edict of Eternal Law.
Search for the Real which lies beneath the Seeming.
Sing not of Peace
Sing thou of Toil,
Of toil that moulds to-day the larger morrow!
Move with stout heart on Life’s great battle-field
And wear the motto “Progress” on thy shield.
All that is best is won through toil and sorrow.
Sing thou of Toil!
Sing thou of Hope!
Of Hope that lights the world to strong endeavour!
Height beyond height but loftier summits show,
Depth beneath depth reveals a depth below.
Choose thou the best. There is no resting ever.
Sing thou of Hope!
Sing thou of Truth!
That which alone can stand when all is sifted;
That which Humanity in pain and tears
Has sought with patient toil through myriad years,
Till thou shalt see with radiant face uplifted
Eternal Truth.
poem by George Essex Evans
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Liebesweh
AH, my heart, the storm and sadness!
Wind that moans, uncomforted,
Requiem for Love that’s dead’
Love that’s dead!
Leafless trees that sough and sigh,
Gloom of earth, and grey of sky,
Ah, my heart, what storm and sadness!
Ah, my heart, those sweet Septembers!
Ah, the glory and the glow
Of the Spring-tides long ago,
Long ago!
Gleam of gold, and glint of green
On the grassy hillsides seen,
Ah, my heart, those sweet Septembers!
Ah, my heart, on sweet soft pinions,
Spring, the lov’d one, hovers nigh,
She shall settle by-and-by,
By-and-by!
But the hills shall shine in vain,
Love, alas, comes not again,
Ah, my heart, on sweet soft pinions!
poem by Dora Wilcox
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Stars
Wild eyes—and faces ashen grey
That strain through lofty prison bars
To see the everlasting stars,
Then turn—to slumber as we may:
Even as we are, so are they,
And here is peace for all who know
The stars still follow where we go,
When heaven and earth have passed away.
Obedient to the Unknown Power,
From out the ruin of a world
A clustered galaxy is hurled
To glimmer through its steadfast hour:
The blazing sun of Shakespeare’s soul
Shattered to star-dust, fills again
With meteor-flights the immortal brain
That seeks a yet more splendid goal;
And still a voice—that now is ours—
Repeats for aye the unknown word
That thrilled the heart of beast and bird,
Ere man had learned to love the flowers.
poem by Dowell O'Reilly
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The House Of Dust: Part 02: 07: Two Lovers: Overtones
Two lovers, here at the corner, by the steeple,
Two lovers blow together like music blowing:
And the crowd dissolves about them like a sea.
Recurring waves of sound break vaguely about them,
They drift from wall to wall, from tree to tree.
'Well, am I late?' Upward they look and laugh,
They look at the great clock's golden hands,
They laugh and talk, not knowing what they say:
Only, their words like music seem to play;
And seeming to walk, they tread strange sarabands.
'I brought you this . . . ' the soft words float like stars
Down the smooth heaven of her memory.
She stands again by a garden wall,
The peach tree is in bloom, pink blossoms fall,
Water sings from an opened tap, the bees
Glisten and murmur among the trees.
Someone calls from the house. She does not answer.
Backward she leans her head,
And dreamily smiles at the peach-tree leaves, wherethrough
She sees an infinite May sky spread
A vault profoundly blue.
The voice from the house fades far away,
The glistening leaves more vaguely ripple and sway . .
The tap is closed, the water ceases to hiss . . .
Silence . . . blue sky . . . and then, 'I brought you this . . . '
She turns again, and smiles . . . He does not know
She smiles from long ago . . .
She turns to him and smiles . . . Sunlight above him
Roars like a vast invisible sea,
Gold is beaten before him, shrill bells of silver;
He is released of weight, his body is free,
He lifts his arms to swim,
Dark years like sinister tides coil under him . . .
The lazy sea-waves crumble along the beach
With a whirring sound like wind in bells,
He lies outstretched on the yellow wind-worn sands
Reaching his lazy hands
Among the golden grains and sea-white shells . . .
'One white rose . . . or is it pink, to-day?'
They pause and smile, not caring what they say,
If only they may talk.
The crowd flows past them like dividing waters.
Dreaming they stand, dreaming they walk.
'Pink,—to-day!'—Face turns to dream-bright face,
Green leaves rise round them, sunshine settles upon them,
Water, in drops of silver, falls from the rose.
She smiles at a face that smiles through leaves from the mirror.
She breathes the fragrance; her dark eyes close . . .
Time is dissolved, it blows like a little dust:
Time, like a flurry of rain,
Patters and passes, starring the window-pane.
Once, long ago, one night,
She saw the lightning, with long blue quiver of light,
Ripping the darkness . . . and as she turned in terror
A soft face leaned above her, leaned softly down,
Softly around her a breath of roses was blown,
She sank in waves of quiet, she seemed to float
In a sea of silence . . . and soft steps grew remote . .
'Well, let us walk in the park . . . The sun is warm,
We'll sit on a bench and talk . . .' They turn and glide,
The crowd of faces wavers and breaks and flows.
'Look how the oak-tops turn to gold in the sunlight!
Look how the tower is changed and glows!'
Two lovers move in the crowd like a link of music,
We press upon them, we hold them, and let them pass;
A chord of music strikes us and straight we tremble;
We tremble like wind-blown grass.
What was this dream we had, a dream of music,
Music that rose from the opening earth like magic
And shook its beauty upon us and died away?
The long cold streets extend once more before us.
The red sun drops, the walls grow grey.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Adventurers
This morning I got up before the sun
Had seized the hill,
And scrambled heart-hot, noisy, past each one
In sleep laid still.
There they lay helpless under the gold stars,
Good folk and kind,
By sleep the robber spoiled of heavenly wares,
Made deaf and blind.
The leaves cracked, the grass rustled as I passed.
I might have been
Myself the thief. Each minute seemed the last
Of freedom's teen.
But lonely down the hill in Levite's guise
Or priest's, I ran.
I had not proved myself, true loverwise,
Samaritan.
The wind went by me, pulling at my hair.
I left the track.
My last night's purpose terrible and fair
Came sweeping back.
Among the bracken under a white tree
I sat me down,
And slipped my shoulders very stealthily
From out my gown.
One minute I lay naked on the grass,
Then sat upright.
The hot wind had its will with me, and kissed
My bosom white.
The stars gleamed in the grey before the rose.
Were they not eyes
That peered and leered, and seemed about to close
In shocked surprise?
With the whole sky at gaze, there had I lain.
Had dared thus much.
I ran on frightened down the hill again,
With gown to clutch.
Down by the creek the blackberries grew thick,
And as I passed
They stretched long arms to hinder me and prick,
Make me shamefast?
Nay, they laughed, pulling at my slipping gown,
Would have laid bare
To chance men on the hillside looking down
The whiteness there.
Close by the blackwoods is the bathing pool
The men have made.
I was no sport for stars, no bramble's fool
In the trees' shade.
But when I stood with limbs and body free
And gleaming fair,
The little kind ferns screened and covered me
Like Agnes' hair.
I slipped into the shallow water, felt
The fine brown sand
Of the creek bottom, shuddered, splashed and knelt
Too cold to stand.
Happy and shivering, with trees overhead,
Fern walls around,
I listened to the water talking, led
To praise by sound.
So I have felt the wind and water's kiss,
Though I'm a maid.
Better be man than be a girl, and miss
Feeling afraid.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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When You Are Not Surprised
When you are not surprised, not surprised,
nor leap in imagination from sunlight into shadow
or from shadow into sunlight
suiting the color of fright or delight
to the bewildering circumstance
when you are no longer surprised
by the quiet or fury of daybreak
the stormy uprush of the sun’s rage
over the edges of torn trees
torrents of living and dying flung
upward and outward inward and downward to space
or else
peace peace peace peace
the wood-thrush speaking his holy holy
far hidden in the forest of the mind
while slowly
the limbs of light unwind
and the world’s surface dreams again of night
as the center dreams of light
when you are not surprised
by breath and breath and breath
the first unconscious morning breath
the tap of the bird’s beak on the pane
and do not cry out come again
blest blest that you are come again
o light o sound o voice of bird o light
and memory too o memory blest
and curst with the debts of yesterday
that would not stay, or stay
when you are not surprised
by death and death and death
death of the bee in the daffodil
death of color in the child’s cheek
on the young mother’s breast
death of sense of touch of sight
death of delight
and the inward death the inward turning night
when the heart hardens itself with hate and indifference
for hated self and beloved not-self
when you are not surprised
by wheel’s turn or turn of season
the winged and orbed chariot tilt of time
the halcyon pause, the blue caesura of spring
and solar rhyme
woven into the divinely remembered nest
by the dark-eyed love in the oriole’s breast
and the tides of space that ring the heart
while still, while still, the wave of the invisible world
breaks into consciousness in the mind of god
then welcome death and be by death benignly welcomed
and join again in the ceaseless know-nothing
from which you awoke to the first surprise.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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In The Shade Of The Green Wood
In the shade of the green wood
The holly does grow,
While in soft rays of sunlight
The wild roses glow,
And I smell their sweet perfume
That gently floats by,
Past trees strong and mighty
That reach to the sky,
The pathway of gold autumn
Leaves still remain,
As I walk through the green wood again.
In the shade of the green wood
This bright sunny morn,
That's so cool in the shadows
A new day is born,
All the birds in the treetops
Are singing for me,
Sweet songs of the summer
Which fill me with glee,
And know from its beauty
I never shall part,
For the green wood does live in my heart.
In the shade of the green wood
A soft gentle breeze,
Now caresses the branches
And whispers through trees,
A sound reassuring
Shall carry me to,
All the scenes that exist
In each marvellous view,
It's here that my spirit
Shall always now stay,
And the green wood is guiding my way.
poem by Andrew Blakemore
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Summer
Some men there are who find in nature all
Their inspiration, hers the sympathy
Which spurs them on to any great endeavor,
To them the fields and woods are closest friends,
And they hold dear communion with the hills;
The voice of waters soothes them with its fall,
And the great winds bring healing in their sound.
To them a city is a prison house
Where pent up human forces labour and strive,
Where beauty dwells not, driven forth by man;
But where in winter they must live until
Summer gives back the spaces of the hills.
To me it is not so. I love the earth
And all the gifts of her so lavish hand:
Sunshine and flowers, rivers and rushing winds,
Thick branches swaying in a winter storm,
And moonlight playing in a boat's wide wake;
But more than these, and much, ah, how much more,
I love the very human heart of man.
Above me spreads the hot, blue mid-day sky,
Far down the hillside lies the sleeping lake
Lazily reflecting back the sun,
And scarcely ruffled by the little breeze
Which wanders idly through the nodding ferns.
The blue crest of the distant mountain, tops
The green crest of the hill on which I sit;
And it is summer, glorious, deep-toned summer,
The very crown of nature's changing year
When all her surging life is at its full.
To me alone it is a time of pause,
A void and silent space between two worlds,
When inspiration lags, and feeling sleeps,
Gathering strength for efforts yet to come.
For life alone is creator of life,
And closest contact with the human world
Is like a lantern shining in the night
To light me to a knowledge of myself.
I love the vivid life of winter months
In constant intercourse with human minds,
When every new experience is gain
And on all sides we feel the great world's heart;
The pulse and throb of life which makes us men!
poem by Amy Lowell
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Dark Angel Dreamer...
I am the dancer of death, the giver of life,
I hold the keys to your past, present and future,
I see the light shining brightly from your darkness,
I open my arms to you and welcome you back into my embrace,
For I can give you the strength to be reborn... To become...
Like a lotus flower open your soul to my nurturing caress,
I shall pick up the shredded pieces of your soul,
With love and compassion I weave them back to wholeness,
I am your dark angel dreamer and I shall consume your pain,
Allow the radiance of life to fill the universe of your heart...
Spread the kove... The peace shall follow...
poem by Cosmic Dreamer
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Interlude: The Casement
Once, when the sun-burst flew
its banner above broad seas and eastern hills,
my casement knew
that morning in her wondrous isle of youth distils
perpetual balm, and tidings trumpeted
of Eden air
winsome and quick, round many a wilding grace, unwed,
clad only in glad hair,
bade fancy soar
far and aloft along that limitless ecstasy
of crystal, towards some shore
where life were crown'd amidst a halcyon sea.
Now — desolate, despairful (lamentable retreat!
wreck'd wheels and spars!),
streaming from irresistible defeat
the broken field of stars:
and all our hope they bore, the appointed word
and that unbroken song
that should resolve our suffering dark in peace, deferr'd
— how long?
The window is wide and lo! beyond its bars
dim fields of fading stars
and cavern tracts, whence the great store of tears
that Beauty all the years
hath wept in wanderings of the eyeless dark,
remembering the long cark
whereunder we, her care, are silent bow'd,
invades with numbing shroud
this dwindling realm of listless avatars.
Dim fields of fading stars,
and shall yet ye with amaranth rapture burn
and maiden grace return
sprung soft and sudden on the fainting night,
rose passioning to white;
or must our task remain and hopeless art
that sickeneth the heart
from yon dull embers to evoke the ghost
of the first garden lost,
sad necromancers we? Then let the blast,
that waked you ancient, cast
into the deeps your useless lagging dearth,
O blazon'd shame of Earth,
who then might hail the last oblivion,
knowing you doomward blown
before the advance of night's relentless cars,
dim fields of fading stars!
40-'O white wind, numbing the world'
O WHITE wind, numbing the world
to a mask of suffering hate!
and thy goblin pipes have skirl’d
all night, at my broken gate.
O heart, be hidden and kept
in a half-light colour’d and warm,
and call on thy dreams that have slept
to charm thee from hate and harm.
They are gone, for I might not keep;
my sense is beaten and dinn’d;
there is no peace but a grey sleep
in the pause of the wind.
poem by Christopher John Brennan
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Richborough Castle
THESE three grey walls are still stout and strong,
Though the fourth wide wall has crumbled away
Where the sea swept by when the land was young,
And the great waves thundered along the bay,
Under the sailing seagull's feather,
Wildly white in the stormy weather,
And, murmuring ever a restless song,
Shone, crumpled green, on a sunny day.
Through eighteen hundred years of our time,
With their storms and sieges, these walls have stood,
Till the cliff that the waves once strove to climb
Is left in a meadow solitude;
And now no sea-gulls' nests are there,
But ash-trees and thorns make the cliff-side fair,
And the green of the leaves, and the white of the lime,
And the red of the berries is sweet and good.
Over the walls, whence eagle-eyed
The Romans looked for the coming foes,
Swift keen-tongued snakes now curl and glide
Where the heavy weight of the ivy grows.
Oh, hand that builded, oh, scheming brain,
So long made one with the dust again,
Your old cement and your walls abide,
But stronger than they are the ivy and rose!
How the whole dear world is golden and green
With the marshy meadows, the dimpled wheat,
The hot strong sunshine, the ivy's sheen,
And the high white lights on the shiny beet.
See the far blue line--the retreating sea!
It is good to be here, it is good to be;
Whatever life is, or whatever has been,
To be now--to be here, is nothing but sweet!
There's an underground passage here, they say,
Here is the entrance with green set round;
You must stoop your head in this low-roofed way,
Leave day, light candles--pass underground.
Here, under the fields, it is damp and cold,
And whatever secret the place may hold
It has held it closely for many a day,
And will hold it for more in its hush profound.
Down here, last year, so the gossips tell,
Some archæological learned bore
Went chipping with hammer and chisel as well
To chip his way to the secret's core--
Shut away from the sun and the browning wheat,
The whitening barley, the purple beet--
In the dark with the damp, the earthy smell,
While the days burned through that return no more.
Oh, fool! not to see that the green of the trees,
The blue of the sky and the blue of the sea,
The placid pasture, the baby breeze,
And the outspread meadows' tranquillity,
With eyes to see them, are more than worth
The whole of the secrets of musty earth.
What secret outweighs such delights as these,
Or pays one lost moment's felicity?
Are we wise, we two, when we try to pierce
To the heart of things, to our own hearts' heart,
To learn the secret springs of the years,
And what that is of which we are part?
Free will--the Absolute--matter--mind--
Ah, we came like the wind and we go like the wind!
Would solving life's mysteries dry our tears,
Or absolute knowledge heal souls that smart?
And meantime one might lose what I'd die to keep--
The power to delight in a day like this,
In the brown wings' whir, and the faint-bell'd sheep,
In the million things that the millions miss.
And, think, had it happened one's in-turned eyes
Had missed the gateway of Paradise,
Had one questioned of dreams till one fell asleep,
Having never dreamed, oh, my Dream, of your kiss!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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I Remember You As You Were
I remember you as you were in the last autumn.
You were the grey beret and the still heart.
In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought on.
And the leaves fell in the water of your soul.
Clasping my arms like a climbing plant
the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace.
Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning.
Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul.
I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far off:
Grey beret, voice of a bird, heart like a house
Towards which my deep longings migrated
And my kisses fell, happy as embers.
Sky from a ship. Field from the hills:
Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond!
Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing.
Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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