Morning
The light will never open sightless eyes,
It comes to those who willingly would see;
And every object,—hill, and stream, and skies,—
Rejoice within th' encircling line to be;
'Tis day,—the field is filled with busy hands,
The shop resounds with noisy workmen's din,
The traveller with his staff already stands
His yet unmeasured journey to begin;
The light breaks gently too within the breast,—
Yet there no eye awaits the crimson morn,
The forge and noisy anvil are at rest,
Nor men nor oxen tread the fields of corn,
Nor pilgrim lifts his staff,—it is no day
To those who find on earth their place to stay.
poem by Jones Very
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Day's Of Summer
The scented air of summers breath, the warming summer sun
The tree-top call from Nightingale says Spring is on the run
The cattle graze at snails pace the sheep are being shorn
The cat has found the perfect place lay flat-out on the lawn
The background air is filled with noise, a tune the insects play
The crickets dance their noisy tune as they go on their way
The shimmer of the warming fields play tricks upon the eyes
The land it seems to dance and leap towards the very skies
The summer yields her grace and beauty right throughout the day
The lazy brook now slowly warming, trout in shadows stay
The fields of corn bring colour's bright, the insects sweetest potion
The ripening oats and Barley sway like waves on deepest ocean
The summer show... the best on earth no tickets here to buy
The limit just your senses and a clear blue open sky
poem by Dave James
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The White Heat
Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat?
Then crouch within the door --
Red -- is the Fire's common tint --
But when the vivid Ore
Has vanquished Flame's conditions,
It quivers from the Forge
Without a color, but the light
Of unanointed Blaze.
Least Village has its Blacksmith
Whose Anvil's even ring
Stands symbol for the finer Forge
That soundless tugs -- within --
Re[f]ining these impatient Ores
With Hammer, and with Blaze
Untile the Designated Light
Repudiate the Forge
poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Instructor
(Non-commissioned Officers of the Line)
At times when under cover I 'ave said,
To keep my spirits up an' raise a laugh,
'Earin 'im pass so busy over-'ead--
Old Nickel-Neck, 'oo is n't on the Staff --
"There's one above is greater than us all"
Before 'im I 'ave seen my Colonel fall,
An 'watched 'im write my Captain's epitaph,
So that a long way off it could be read--
He 'as the knack o' makin' men feel small--
Old Whistle Tip, 'oo is n't on the Staff.
There is no sense in fleein'' (I 'ave fled),
Better go on an' do the belly-crawl,
An' 'ope' 'e '1l it some other man instead
Of you 'e seems to 'unt so speshual--
Fitzy van Spitz, 'oo is n't on the Staff.
An' thus in mem'ry's cinematograph,
Now that the show is over, I recall
The peevish voice an' 'oary mushroom 'ead
Of 'im we owned was greater than us all,
'Oo give instruction to the quick an' the dead--
The Shudderin'' Beggar--not upon the Staff!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat?
365
Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat?
Then crouch within the door—
Red—is the Fire's common tint—
But when the vivid Ore
Has vanquished Flame's conditions,
It quivers from the Forge
Without a color, but the light
Of unanointed Blaze.
Least Village has its Blacksmith
Whose Anvil's even ring
Stands symbol for the finer Forge
That soundless tugs—within—
Refining these impatient Ores
With Hammer, and with Blaze
Until the Designated Light
Repudiate the Forge—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Walking Through Fields Of Fire
I walk through fields of fire
With coals of fire beneath my feet
I sail through stormy waters
Guided by the mercy seat
The brimstones shortly coming
You must flee now from the wrath
For fire falls down from heaven
Yet I am guided by His staff
The narrow path through valleys dark
Leads onward to the hill
And all around the mountains fall
But our Lord says ' be still.'
Come higher now ascend the hill
My God atop He stands
And looks to see the pure in heart
To see those with clean hands
Who is this King lift up your head
And sing with all your might
The King of Glory is His name
His light defeats the night
He is God's Son, the Holy One
He puts and end to death and sin
Fall to your knees, lift up your hands
And the King of Glory shall come in!
poem by Frank McEleny
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The Morning Quatrains
THE cock has crow'd an hour ago,
'Tis time we now dull sleep forego;
Tir'd Nature is by sleep redress'd,
And Labour's overcome by rest.
We have out-done the work of Night,
'Tis time we rise t'attend the Light,
And e'er he shall his beams display,
To plot new bus'ness for the Day.
None but the slothful, or unsound,
Are by the Sun in feathers found,
Nor, without rising with the Sun,
Can the world's bus'ness e'er be done.
Hark! Hark! the watchful Chanticler
Tells us the Day's bright harbinger
Peeps o'er the eastern hills, to awe
And warm night's sov'reign to withdraw.
The morning curtains now are drawn,
And now appears the blushing dawn;
Aurora has her roses shed,
To strew the way Sol's steeds must tread.
Xanthus and Aethon harness'd are,
To roll away the burning car,
And, snorting flame, impatient bear
The dressing of the charioteer.
The sable cheeks of sullen Night
Are streak'd with rosy streams of light,
Whilst she retires away in fear,
To shade the other hemisphere.
The merry lark now takes her wings,
And long'd-for Day's loud welcome sings,
Mounting her body out of sight,
As if she meant to meet the Light.
Now doors and windows are unbarr'd,
Each-where are cheerful voices heard,
And round about 'Good-morrows' fly,
As if Day taught Humanity.
The chimnies now to smoke begin,
And the old wife sits down to spin,
Whilst Kate, taking her pail, does trip
Mull's swoll'n and straddl'ing paps to strip.
Vulcan now makes his anvil ring,
Dick whistles loud, and Maud doth sing,
And Silvio with his bugle horn
Winds an Imprime unto the Morn.
Now through the morning doors behold
Phoebus array'd in burning gold,
Lashing his fiery steeds, displays
His warm and all-enlight'ning rays.
Now each one to his work prepares,
All that have hands are labourers,
And manufactures of each trade
By op'ning shops are open laid.
Hob yokes his oxen to the team,
The angler goes unto the stream,
The woodman to the purlews hies,
And lab'ring bees to load their thighs.
Fair Amarillis drives her flocks,
All night safe-folded from the fox,
To flow'ry downs, where Colin stays,
To court her with his roundelays.
The traveller now leaves his inn
A new day's journey to begin,
As he would post it with the day,
And early rising makes good way.
The slick-fac'd school-boy satchel takes,
And with slow pace small riddance makes;
For why, the haste we make, you know
To Knowledge and to Virtue's slow.
The fore-horse jingles on the road,
The wagoner lugs on his load,
The field with busy people snies,
And city rings with various cries.
The World is now a busy swarm,
All doing good, or doing harm;
But let's take heed our acts be true,
For Heaven's eye sees all we do.
None can that piercing sight evade,
It penetrates the darkest shade,
And sin, though it could 'scape the eye,
Would be discover'd by the cry.
poem by Charles Cotton
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His Staff and Rod
I can be content with what I have, knowing I always have His staff,
For I have His staff to comfort me, on my journey towards Eternity.
With His rod Christ guides my way, down the path every single day.
Times get hard, this is for sure, but I know that I do have The Lord.
Christ leads me in valleys so low, in places that I don’t really know.
The times that I don’t understand, I know for sure I’m in His Hand.
And when in the Hand of The Lord, in any place I know I’m secure,
For any place that I should go, The Lord is with me, this I do know.
When the valley is dark as night, I have with me His guiding Light,
His Light guides me in all I do, as I travel the valley safely through,
And as I travel to higher land, I’m being led by God’s Mighty Hand.
Along the way I take a stand, to praise the name of The Son of Man.
On my journey I sometimes stop, high above upon a mountain top,
It’s a mountain high so I can see, what The Lord can do through me.
Christ fills me then with a zeal, that lets me know His Love is real.
And with this zeal I can testify, He still is Lord who reigns on High.
God can reach you where you are, it doesn’t matter if near or far,
For He is God of the mountain peak, on every day of every week,
And He is God in the valley low, and any place where you may go.
Just call on God from anywhere, and my friend, He’ll meet you there.
(Copyright ©01/2005)
The Gentle Traveller
Through many a land your journey ran,
And showed the best the world can boast:
Now tell me, traveller, if you can,
The place that pleased you most."
She laid her hands upon my breast,
And murmured gently in my ear,
"The place I loved and liked the best
Was in your arms, my dear!"
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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The Glory Of God
The earth is filled with the glory of God
As the waters cover the sea
He is the one who came and died for you
He is the one who has set you free
His glory covers all of the earth
And the heavens are full of His praise
His brightness is brighter than a thousand suns
So to Him our hands we must raise
He stands and measures all of the earth
And the perpetual hills bow down
The deep cries out and lifts its hands
To the King who now wears a crown
The sun and the moon stand still in their place
All the earth is hushed by your sight
And the heavens retreat and cover their face
For what was dark has now become light
Then I saw a new heaven, and behold a new earth
For all things had now passed away
For the Lord had come down and took His place
And this is what I heard Him say
I am the Alpha and Omega, the Beginning and the End
Living waters flow freely from Me
Every tear I have come, to wipe away
And in my presence, forever, you will be!
poem by Frank McEleny
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Piscataqua River
Thou singest by the gleaming isles,
By woods, and fields of corn,
Thou singest, and the sunlight smiles
Upon my birthday morn.
But I within a city, I,
So full of vague unrest,
Would almost give my life to lie
An hour upon upon thy breast.
To let the wherry listless go,
And, wrapt in dreamy joy,
Dip, and surge idly to and fro,
Like the red harbor-buoy;
To sit in happy indolence,
To rest upon the oars,
And catch the heavy earthy scents
That blow from summer shores;
To see the rounded sun go down,
And with its parting fires
Light up the windows of the town
And burn the tapering spires;
And then to hear the muffled tolls
From steeples slim and white,
And watch, among the Isles of Shoals,
The Beacon's orange light.
O River! flowing to the main
Through woods, and fields of corn,
Hear thou my longing and my pain
This sunny birthday morn;
And take this song which fancy shapes
To music like thine own,
And sing it to the cliffs and capes
And crags where I am known!
poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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The Setting Of The Moon
As, in the lonely night,
Above the silvered fields and streams
Where zephyr gently blows,
And myriad objects vague,
Illusions, that deceive,
Their distant shadows weave
Amid the silent rills,
The trees, the hedges, villages, and hills;
Arrived at heaven's boundary,
Behind the Apennine or Alp,
Or into the deep bosom of the sea,
The moon descends, the world grows dim;
The shadows disappear, darkness profound
Falls on each hill and vale around,
And night is desolate,
And singing, with his plaintive lay,
The parting gleam of friendly light
The traveller greets, whose radiance bright,
Till now, hath guided him upon his way;
So vanishes, so desolate
Youth leaves our mortal state.
The shadows disappear,
And the illusions dear;
And in the distance fading all, are seen
The hopes on which our suffering natures lean.
Abandoned and forlorn
Our lives remain;
And the bewildered traveller, in vain,
As he its course surveys,
To find the end, or object tries,
Of the long path that still before him lies.
A hopeless darkness o'er him steals;
Himself an alien on the earth he feels.
Too happy, and too gay
Would our hard lot appear
To those who placed us here, if youth,
Whose every joy is born of pain,
Through all our days were suffered to remain;
Too merciful the law,
That sentences each animal to death,
Did not the road that leads to it,
E'er half-completed, unto us appear
Than death itself more sad and drear.
Thou blest invention of the Gods,
And worthy of their intellects divine,
Old age, the last of all our ills,
When our desires still linger on,
Though every ray of hope is gone;
When pleasure's fountains all are dried,
Our pains increasing, every joy denied!
Ye hills, and vales, and fields,
Though in the west hath set the radiant orb
That shed its lustre on the veil of night,
Will not long time remain bereft,
In hopeless darkness left?
Ye soon will see the eastern sky
Grow white again, the dawn arise,
Precursor of the sun,
Who with the splendor of his rays
Will all the scene irradiate,
And with his floods of light
The fields of heaven and earth will inundate.
But mortal life,
When lovely youth has gone,
Is colored with no other light,
And knows no other dawn.
The rest is hopeless wretchedness and gloom;
The journey's end, the dark and silent tomb.
poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi
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I Bless You, Forests
I bless you, forests, valleys, fields, mountains, waters,
I bless freedom and blue skies.
I bless my staff and my humble rags.
And the steppe from beginning to end,
And the sun's light, and night's darkness,
And the path I walk, pauper that I am,
And, in the field every blade of grass,
and every star in the sky!
O! if only I could encompass all life,
And join my soul with yours.
O! if only I could embrace you all,
Enemies, friends and brothers, and all nature,
And enfold all nature in my arms!
poem by Aleksey Konstantinovich Tolstoy
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You can criticize any news staff in some ways, but the one thing that you couldn't call the Village Voice staff was a staff of stenographers, taking notes from public figures and just passing them on.
quote by Sydney Schanberg
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ajmer
Ajmer in the arms of Aravalli
is alight with the light from Bhagavaan
Moinuddin Chisti
and has the halo of heaven upon earth
The endless pilgrim flow
along the road of Darga
mingle with the noisy silence of the Dargah
and one can hear the holy men of the past
singing hymns to the only God
when one lends ones ears to the confluence
poem by Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya
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Attention turning.
Like light fading from a day.
Messages in the distance,
Noises from afar.
Not heard anymore.
Just irritating,
Like a noisy car.
Like light fading from
A winters` day inexorably.
You cannot please everyone.
Sometimes,
You just have to say
That was yesterday.
But like before
My attention is turning,
A little back to you
Right now,
But soon.
There will be a different song,
And attention turning
Will begin
From this sad ol`place
Of inbetween loves.
poem by Peter Vealey
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After The Day
when day folds
like an umbrella after a rain
of heat and light,
we must welcome the night
as a nesting place of love
and rest
we must journey into the fields
of dreams
blue skies, soft clouds
drifting in our minds
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Hole in One(golf)
As I approach the beauty of the waving blades marked with golden stakes
I feel the gentle breeze brushing through my hair standing on the overlooking mound
The power rushes through my hands as I pick up my powerful staff to tame this green beauty
I swing my staff with all my might at the unusually round white evil of the average man
As I forcefully strike evil and watch, it soars gently through the air
It slowly lifts towards the heavens but is just as slowly denied and falls to the final battlefield
Softly landing on the forbidden grounds it shakes a white flag at me signaling submission
Finally I have won I have been accepted in to God’s green heavens
poem by Mike Birdscratch
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Life’s Rainbow
In thoughts of love,
we will journey across
the green fields of fate
sliding over life’s rainbow
to find the brightest colour
that awaits us at the end.
We journey with our heart
ignoring our mind set
to find the perfect partner
who will illuminate our lives
and set our world ablaze.
The one who will inspire
our fountain of youth within.
In thoughts of love,
we will journey to
the ends of the earth
if the need must be
to slide over life’s rainbow
to find the brightest colour
that awaits us at the end.
poem by David Harris
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One Day's Command
The plumed staff officer gallops
Along the swaying line,
That shakes as, beaten by hailstones,
Shakes the loaded autumn vine;
And the earth beneath is reddened,
But not with the stain of wine.
The regular shock of a battery
The rattling tumult stuns;
And its steady thrill through the hill-side
Like a pulse beneath it runs;
The many are dead around it,
But the few still work the guns.
'Who commands this battery?'
And Crosby his clear, young eyes
From the sliding gun-sights lifting
As the well-aimed death-bolt flies,
'I command it today, Sir!'
With a steady voice replies.
Answers as heroes answer,
With modest words and few,
Whose hearts and hands to duty
Even in death are true,
Though its awful light is breaking
Full on their blenchless view.
The officer passes onward
With a less troubled eye,
The words and the look unshaken
Bid every wild doubt fly;
He knows that the young commander
Is there to do or die.
To do
and
die; for the battle
And day of command are done,
While stands unmoved on the hill-side
Each shattered, blackened gun,
And Crosby in death beside them
A deathless name has won.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Barbara Frietchie
Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree fruited deep,
Fair as the garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain-wall;
Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.
Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down;
In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet,
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced; the old flag met his sight.
'Halt!' - the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
'Fire!' - out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.
She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.
'Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country's flag,' she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman's deed and word;
'Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on! he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:
All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.
Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er,
And the Rebel rides on his raids nor more.
Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewalls' bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie's grave,
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace and order and beauty draw
Round they symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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