En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Swags Up!

Swags up! and yet I turn upon the way.
The yellow hill against a dapple sky,
With tufts and clumps of thorn, the bush whereby
All through the wonder-pregnant night I lay
Until the silver stars were merged in grey
Our fragrant camp, demand a parting sigh:
New tracks, new camps, and hearts for ever high,
Yet brief regret with every welcome day.
Dear dreamy earth, receding flickering lamp,
Dear dust wherein I found this night a home,
Still for a memory's sake I turn and cling,
Then take the road for many a distant camp,
Among what hills, by what pale whispering foam,
With eager faith for ever wandering.

poem by John Le Gay Brereton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Land of Story-Books

At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.

There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter's camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.

These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes;
And there the river by whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink.

I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
Around their party prowled about.

So when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear land of Story-books.

poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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The Drover Of The Stars

IT is little I care for earth's kings,
Its emperors, sultans and czars,
As I lie in the darkness and dream
All alone with my sheep and the stars.
For as dust of the moment are they,
Now agleam and now still on earth's breast;
But the stars, spreading wide in the night,
Travel on, ever on to the west.
My sheep, snugly camped in the dark,
Misty-white with the pale grasses blend;
But where is the camp of the stars?
And whither, O Night, do they wend?
Through leagues of dry distance we came,
Where dust-wreaths, wind-woven, upcurled,
Since Dawn dropped the rails of the east
And let the Day into our world.
Slow-moving we travelled the plains,
Trudging on through the sun and the wind,
Till Day galloped out of the west,
And Night set the sliprails behind.
And now, by my camp-fire alone,
A tryst with pale Wonder I keep —
That mystical Lady of Dreams,
Whose hour is the sleep-of-the-sheep.
Foot-tired in the grasses they lie,
Mist-pale in the darkness, and dumb;
Yet who was it mustered the stars,
And whence and what leagues have they come?
Who keeps them from straying apart?
Who urges them straight on their route?
No answer — none tell me; and lo!
The Night, though it listen, is mute!
Watch 'neath the stars of the Cross,
Orion, and Venus and Mars;
I am but a drover of sheep —
But who is the Drover of Stars?

poem by Roderic Quinn
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The Camp Within the West

O DID you see a troop go by
Way-weary and oppressed,
Dead kisses on the drooping lip
And a dead heart in the breast?

Yea, I have seen them one by one
Way-weary and oppressed,
And when I asked them, ‘Whither speed?’
They answered, ‘To the West!’

And were they pale as pale could be—
Death-pale with haunted eyes,
And did you see the hot white dust
Range round their feet and rise?

Oh, they were pale as pale could be,
And pale as an embered leaf;
The hot white dust had risen, but
They laid it with their grief.

Did no one say the way is long,
And crave a little rest?
Oh no, they said, ‘The night is nigh,
Our camp is in the West!’

And did pain pierce their feet, as though
The way with thorns were set,
And were they visited by strange
Dark angels of regret?

Oh yea, and some were mute as death,
Though shot by many a dart,
With them the salt of inward tears
Went stinging through the heart.

And how are these wayfarers called,
And whither do they wend?
The Weary-Hearted—and their road
At sunset hath and end.

Shed tears for them…Nay, nay, no tears!
They yearn for endless rest;
Perhaps large stars will burn above
Their camp within the West.

poem by Roderic Quinn
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Turn

It's a hard way to come home
You've got me on my knees
The walls are tumbling down
The falling night believes
Listening through months and years
I can't forget that you were here
I feel your presence everywhere
In the corner over there
Turn your eyes from me
It's time for me to go
Across the hills and over the sea
I want you more than I know
It's a wild world out there
And nobody gives a damn
In cold blood we don't care
And we don't want to understand
I'm sitting here alone at night
My sleepless eyes are open wide
What do you want me to say
What we had has gone away
The sky is high the road is long
Show me what I should have done
What do you want me to do
Take it all away from you
Turn your eyes from me
It's time for me to go
Across the hills and over the sea
I want you more than I know
Turn your eyes from me
It's time for me to go
Across the hills and over the sea
I want you more than I know

song performed by by New Order
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dear Night

Dear Night,
Again me, paper and a pen
Draw the air of my soul that still flying

Dear Night,
Again me, ipod and Foo Fighters
Sing aloud 'Walking After You'

Dear Night,
Again me, sky and the wind
Paint his face among the stars

Dear Night,
Again me, feelings and thoughts
Try to find the answer who does he love

Dear Night,
Again me, vision and smell
Read his mind underneath the pain

Dear Night,
Again me, loneliness and emptiness
Beyond of his sight and sensitiveness

Dear Night,
Again me, him and us
Around uncertainty situation of impossible LOVE

poem by Ade Renny Dwi Damayanti
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At Twilight

Was it so long? It seems so brief a while
Since this still hour between the day and dark
Was ligntened by a little fellow’s smile;
Since we were wont to mark
The sunset’s crimson dim to gold, to gray,
Content to know that, though he loved to roam
Care-free among the comrades of his play,
Twilight would lead him home.

A year ago! The well-remembered hail
Of happy-hearted children on the green
We hear to-night, and see the sunset pale,
The distant hills between:
But when the busy feet shall homeward turn,
When little wearied heads shall seek for rest,
Where shall you find the weight for which you yearn,
Ah, tender mother-breast?

Dear lips, that in the twilight hushed and dim
Lulled him with murmured fantasies of song;
Dear slender arms, that safely sheltered him,
The empty years are long!
The night’s caressing wind moves babbling on,
And all the whispered gossip of the firs
Is busy with his name who now is gone—
My little lad and hers!

But if we so, with eager eyes and glad,
Looked forward to his coming in the gloom;
If so our hearts leaped out to meet the lad
Whose smile lit all the room,—
Shall there not be a Presence waiting thus
To still the bitter craving of the quest?
Shall there not be a welcome, too, for us
When we go home to rest?

Yes, God be thanked for this: the ashen-gowned
Sweet presence of the twilight, and, afar,
The strong, enduring hills, in beauty crowned
With one white, steadfast star!
A year ago? What, love, to us are years?
The selfsame twilight, cool, and calm, and dim,
That led him home to us, despite our fears,
Shall lead us home to him!

poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Mary Ann

Oh, fare thee well, my own true love, fare thee well but for a while
The ship is waiting and the wind blows high
And I am bound away for the sea, mary ann.
Ten thousand miles away from home, ten thousand miles or more
The sea may freeze and the earth may burn
If I never nomore return to you, mary ann.
Oh, dont you see that crow fly high, shell surely turn to white
If never I prove false to you
Let the day turn to night, my dear, mary ann.
If I had a flask of gin and sugar here for two
And a great big bowl for two to mix it in
Id pour a drink for you my dear, mary ann
Yes, Id pour a drink for you my dear, mary ann.

song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Roaring Days

The night too quickly passes
And we are growing old,
So let us fill our glasses
And toast the Days of Gold;
When finds of wondrous treasure
Set all the South ablaze,
And you and I were faithful mates
All through the roaring days!

Then stately ships came sailing
From every harbour's mouth,
And sought the land of promise
That beaconed in the South;
Then southward streamed their streamers
And swelled their canvas full
To speed the wildest dreamers
E'er borne in vessel's hull.

Their shining Eldorado,
Beneath the southern skies,
Was day and night for ever
Before their eager eyes.
The brooding bush, awakened,
Was stirred in wild unrest,
And all the year a human stream
Went pouring to the West.

The rough bush roads re-echoed
The bar-room's noisy din,
When troops of stalwart horsemen
Dismounted at the inn.
And oft the hearty greetings
And hearty clasp of hands
Would tell of sudden meetings
Of friends from other lands;
When, puzzled long, the new-chum
Would recognise at last,
Behind a bronzed and bearded skin,
A comrade of the past.

And when the cheery camp-fire
Explored the bush with gleams,
The camping-grounds were crowded
With caravans of teams;
Then home the jests were driven,
And good old songs were sung,
And choruses were given
The strength of heart and lung.
Oh, they were lion-hearted
Who gave our country birth!
Oh, they were of the stoutest sons
From all the lands on earth!

Oft when the camps were dreaming,
And fires began to pale,
Through rugged ranges gleaming
Would come the Royal Mail.
Behind six foaming horses,
And lit by flashing lamps,
Old `Cobb and Co.'s', in royal state,
Went dashing past the camps.

Oh, who would paint a goldfield,
And limn the picture right,
As we have often seen it
In early morning's light;
The yellow mounds of mullock
With spots of red and white,
The scattered quartz that glistened
Like diamonds in light;
The azure line of ridges,
The bush of darkest green,
The little homes of calico
That dotted all the scene.

I hear the fall of timber
From distant flats and fells,
The pealing of the anvils
As clear as little bells,
The rattle of the cradle,
The clack of windlass-boles,
The flutter of the crimson flags
Above the golden holes.

. . . . .

Ah, then our hearts were bolder,
And if Dame Fortune frowned
Our swags we'd lightly shoulder
And tramp to other ground.
But golden days are vanished,
And altered is the scene;
The diggings are deserted,
The camping-grounds are green;
The flaunting flag of progress
Is in the West unfurled,
The mighty bush with iron rails
Is tethered to the world.

poem by Henry Lawson
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Isolation.

He came by unknown ways, and stood
At evening in the fading wood,
Which when the glowing hills were gone
Would as in a dream murmur on,
As he beside his camp-fire's glare
Sat as if in a vision there,
And felt the silence like a thing
In which his soul was functioning.
He was a poet maybe who
The world's impression dreamy drew
From his own heart in that strange air,
Like one who had been everywhere
And with the stars and fire-lit trees
Did blend a thousand memories,
Making that speck of light his home
Until the dewy dawn should come.
He well had seemed a phantom at
Some mystic work as lone he sat
Within his ring of charméd light,
Who might step out into the night,
And in a mischief-making mood
Perturb the starry solitude
Until his fire burnt out, and then
Might creep back to his camp again,
And wrapped within his blanket be
A thought-deserted entity.

poem by Robert Crawford
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Swallows

O LITTLE hearts, beat home, beat home,
Here is no place to rest.
Night darkens on the falling foam
And on the fading west.
O little wings, beat home, beat home.
Love may no longer roam.

O, Love has touched the fields of wheat
And Love has crowned the corn,
And we must follow Love's white feet
Through all the ways of morn.
Through all the silver roads of air
We pass and have no care.

The silver roads of Love are wide,
O winds that turn, O stars that guide.
Sweet are the ways that Love has trod
Through the clear skies that reach to God.
But in the cliff-grass Love builds deep
A place where wandering wings may sleep.

poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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At the Okavango swamp

It was in the Okavango swamp
that the dark ghoul came at night
and passed so near
that I could smell its stinking breath.

Every morning the four-toed tracks
lay in the sand
everywhere in the camp
where it came to break into
what ever it could find.

With powerful jaws and premolars
made for crushing bones
it gnawed into anything
that it could lay jaws on.

Till one night that the dog like
brown-grey carnivore
with black spots
got a shocking surprise
and I saw yellow eyes glowing
while it draw closer and closer
while crying
like a hysterical human laughing

and walked straight into
an electrified wire
fitted to a couple of landrover
and four by four batteries
running around the camp
and blue white sparks flew
and covered that hyena

like a character
in a computer game
it was covered in lightning
and it howled and howled
rising in pitch
and never came back again.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Musings

I sat by my window one night,
And watched how the stars grew high;
And the earth and skies were a splendid sight
To a sober and musing eye.

From heaven the silver moon shone down
With gentle and mellow ray,
And beneath the crowded roofs of the town
In broad light and shadow lay.

A glory was on the silent sea,
And mainland and island too,
Till a haze came over the lowland lea,
And shrouded that beautiful blue.

Bright in the moon the autumn wood
Its crimson scarf unrolled,
And the trees like a splendid army stood
In a panoply of gold!

I saw them waving their banners high,
As their crests to the night wind bowed,
And a distant sound on the air went by,
Like the whispering of a crowd.

Then I watched from my window how fast
The lights all around me fled,
As the wearied man to his slumber passed
And the sick one to his bed.

All faded save one, that burned
With distant and steady light;
But that, too, went out -- and I turned
Where my own lamp within shone bright!

Thus, thought I, our joys must die,
Yes -- the brightest from earth we win:
Till each turns away, with a sign,
To the lamp that burns brightly within.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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A little while, a little while,

A little while, a little while,
The noisy crowd are barred away;
And I can sing and I can smile
A little while I've holyday !

Where wilt thou go my harassed heart ?
Full many a land invites thee now;
And places near, and far apart
Have rest for thee, my weary brow -

There is a spot 'mid barren hills
Where winter howls and driving rain
But if the dreary tempest chills
There is a light that warms again

The house is old, the trees are bare
And moonless bends the misty dome
But what on earth is half so dear -
So longed for as the hearth of home ?

The mute bird sitting on the stone,
The dank moss dripping from the wall,
The garden-walk with weeds o'ergrown
I love them - how I love them all !

Shall I go there? or shall I seek
Another clime, another sky,
Where tongues familiar music speak
In accents dear to memory ?

Yes, as I mused, the naked room,
The flickering firelight died away
And from the midst of cheerless gloom
I passed to bright unclouded day -

A little and a lone green lane
That opened on a common wide
A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain
Of mountains circling every side -

A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
So sweet, so soft, so hushed in air
And, deepening still the dreamlike charm,
Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere -

That was the scene - I knew it well
I knew the pathways far and near
That winding o'er each billowy swell
Marked out the tracks of wandering deer

Could I have lingered but an hour
It well had paid a week of toil
But truth has banished fancy's power
I hear my dungeon bars recoil -

Even as I stood with raptured eye
Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear
My hour of rest had fleeted by
And given me back to weary care -

poem by Emily Jane Brontë
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The Soldier's Grave

Twas long ago, in the summer-time,
On a day as sad as this,
That I laid my babe in its father's arms,
And he gave it his farewell kiss;
When the army sail'd from the English shores
In a mist of sun and rain,
To the vine-clad hills and citadels
And the olive groves of Spain.

I set my face to the balmy south,
And listen'd, intent and dumb,
As though a cry from the battle-grounds
On the fragrant wind might come.
I yearn'd for a gleam of the red camp fires
Which burn'd through the watchful nights,
For the shine of the bayonets that clash'd one day
On the dread Albuera heights.

Ah me! And my face cannot turn away,
Though the ashes are on my brow,—
Though the news of the battle came once for all,
And there's nothing to watch for now!
Though 'tis further away than that far south land
I must look for my dear man's face,—
Though I know he will never come home again
To the chair in the old house-place!

poem by Ada Cambridge
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Honkytonkville

Thought Id go crazy when you said goodbye
I didnt have that far to go
But I made a wrong turn somewhere in the night
Down a long and lonely road
Chorus:
To Honkytonkville, an ideal
Home away from home sweet home
Honkytonkville where I dont feel
A thing since youve been gone
Where the futures always bright
In the glow of neon lights
Livin high on Barstool Hill in Honkytonkville
Theres friendly faces everywhere I turn
Droppin quarters in the slot
Lord knows that weve all got memories to burn
And thats why that jukebox plays around the clock
Repeat Chorus
Livin high on Barstool Hill in Honkytonkville

song performed by by George Strait
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lost in the Prairie

In one of fhe States of America, some years ago,
There suddenly came on a violent storm of snow,
Which was nearly the death of a party of workmen,
Who had finished their day's work - nine or ten of them.

The distance was nearly twenty miles to their camp,
And with the thick falling snow their clothes felt damp,
As they set out for their camp, which was in a large grove,
And to reach it, manfully against the storm they strove.

The wind blew very hard, and the snow was falling fast,
Still, they plodded on, but felt a little downcast,
And the snow fell so fast they could scarcely see,
And they began to think they were lost on the wild prairie.

And they suddenly noticed marks of footsteps in the snow,
Which they found were their own tracks, as onward they did go,
Then they knew they were lost on the great prairie,
And what could they do in such a fearful extremity?

Then their hearts began to sink with woe,
In dread of having to pass the night in the snow,
And they cried, "Oh, God help us to find our way,
Or else we are lost on the lonely prairie."

And while they stood shivering with the cold,
One of the party a particular horse did behold,
Which was known by the name of Old Jack,
So to take off his bridle they were not slack.

When the horse was let free he threw up his head and tail,
Which seemed to say, "Follow ms, and ye will not fail.
So come on, boys, and follow me,
And I'll guide ye home safely."

And they cried, " Old Jack can show us the way,
So let's follow his tracks without dismay";
And with the falling snow they were chilled to the bone,
But the horse seemed to say, "I'll show ye home."

And at last they gave a shout of delight
When they saw their camp fire burning bright,
Which was to them a cheerful sight,
And they caressed Old Jack for guiding them home that night.

And they felt thankful to God for their safety,
And they danced around Old Jack with their hearts full of glee,
And Old Jack became a favourite from that day,
Because he saved them from being lost on the wild prairie.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Twins

Twins
Two of a kind
A surprise gift from the most high
That brought so much cheer
To me and my dear
Till I found out about the real tale
That caring them would entail
A whimper here and a scream there
So often turning my face so pale
One pee now and one pee then
Making the night like a drain
The worst would be when one fell sick
When my heart would turn brick
To make them sleep separate ways
One down here and one up there
One with me and one, my dear
Till the doctor gave his care
The greatest joke was to come
When both were called a damn
Because the teacher could
Not differentiate Dan from Pam

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Mutability

They say there's a high windless world and strange,
Out of the wash of days and temporal tide,
Where Faith and Good, Wisdom and Truth abide,
Æterna corpora, subject to no change.
There the sure suns of these pale shadows move;
There stand the immortal ensigns of our war;
Our melting flesh fixed Beauty there, a star,
And perishing hearts, imperishable Love. . . .

Dear, we know only that we sigh, kiss, smile;
Each kiss lasts but the kissing; and grief goes over;
Love has no habitation but the heart.
Poor straws! on the dark flood we catch awhile,
Cling, and are borne into the night apart.
The laugh dies with the lips, 'Love' with the lover.

poem by Rupert Brooke (1913)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Passing of Scotty

WE THROW us down on the dusty plain
When the gold has gone from the west,
But we rise and tramp on the track again,
For we’re tired—too tired to rest.
Darker and denser the shadows fall
That are cramping each aching brow—
Scotty the Wrinkler! you’ve solved it all,
Give us a wrinkle now.

But no one lieth so still in death
As the rover who never could rest;
And he’s free of thought as he’s free of breath—
And his hands are crossed on his breast.
You have earned your rest—you brave old tramp—
As I hope in the end we will.
Ah me! ’Twas a long, long way to camp
Since the days when they called you “Phil’.

What have they done with your quaint old soul
Now they have passed you through?
But we can’t but think, as our swags we roll,
That it’s right, old man, with you;
You learned some truth in the storm and strife
Of the outcast battler’s ways;
And you left some light in the vagabond’s life
Ere you vanished beyond the haze.

One by one in the far ahead,
In the smothering haze of drought—
Where hearts are loyal and hopes are dead—
The forms of our mates fade out.
’Tis a distant goal and a weary load,
But we follow the Wrinkler home,
As, staggering into the short, straight road,
From the blind branch tracks we come.

We leave our mark and we play our part
In the nation’s pregnant days,
And we find a place in the Bushman’s heart
Ere we vanish beyond the haze.

poem by Henry Lawson
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Dont You Know

(ray charles)
Yeah
Dont you know, baby?
Hey child, dont you know?
Dont you know, baby?
Little boy, little boy, dont you know?
Dont you know, baby?
Boy, Im in love with you so
Turn your oil lamp down low
I said, turn your lamp down low
Ow, turn it down
Yeah, turn your lamp down low
A-come on, baby
I know Im in love with you so
I know Ive been away
For such a long, long time
But now, baby, I cant get you off my mind
So come on, baby, come on
Now come on, I love you daddy all night long
Ow, now you love me like I love you
We can do all the things that we used to do
So come on, a-come on
Hey, a-come on, I love you daddy all night long
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Ooh, singin it baby, yeah
Hey, have you heard?
My guys back in town
You can mess around til the midnight hour
To see what hes puttin down
So, come on, oh baby, come on
A-come on, I love you daddy all night long
A-turn your lamp down low
A-turn your lamp down low
A-turn your lamp down low
I love you daddy all night long
Turn that thing down, baby
I love you daddy all night long

song performed by by Dusty Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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