The Fair Morning
The clear bright morning, with its scented air
And gaily waving flowers, is here again;
Man's heart is lifted with the voice of prayer,
And peace descends, as falls the gentle rain;
The tuneful birds, that all the night have slept,
Take up at dawn the evening's dying lay,
When sleep upon their eyelids gently crept
And stole with stealthy craft their song away.
High overhead the forest's swaying boughs
Sprinkle with drops the traveler on his way;
He hears far off the tinkling bells of cows
Driven to pasture at the break of day;
With vigorous step he passes swift along,
Making the woods reecho with his song.
poem by Jones Very
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Bells in the Rain
Sleep falls, with limpid drops of rain,
Upon the steep cliffs of the town.
Sleep falls; men are at peace again
While the small drops fall softly down.
The bright drops ring like bells of glass
Thinned by the wind, and lightly blown;
Sleep cannot fall on peaceful grass
So softly as it falls on stone.
Peace falls unheeded on the dead
Asleep; they have had deep peace to drink;
Upon a live man's bloody head
It falls most tenderly, I think.
poem by Elinor Morton Wylie
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The Voice
Safe in the magic of my woods
I lay, and watched the dying light.
Faint in the pale high solitudes,
And washed with rain and veiled by night,
Silver and blue and green were showing.
And the dark woods grew darker still;
And birds were hushed; and peace was growing;
And quietness crept up the hill;
And no wind was blowing
And I knew
That this was the hour of knowing,
And the night and the woods and you
Were one together, and I should find
Soon in the silence the hidden key
Of all that had hurt and puzzled me -
Why you were you, and the night was kind,
And the woods were part of the heart of me.
And there I waited breathlessly,
Alone; and slowly the holy three,
The three that I loved, together grew
One, in the hour of knowing,
Night, and the woods, and you -
And suddenly
There was an uproar in my woods,
The noise of a fool in mock distress,
Crashing and laughing and blindly going,
Of ignorant feet and a swishing dress,
And a Voice profaning the solitudes.
The spell was broken, the key denied me
And at length your flat clear voice beside me
Mouthed cheerful clear flat platitudes.
You came and quacked beside me in the wood.
You said, 'The view from here is very good!'
You said, 'It's nice to be alone a bit!'
And, 'How the days are drawing out!' you said.
You said, 'The sunset's pretty, isn't it?'
* * * * *
By God! I wish - I wish that you were dead!
poem by Rupert Brooke (1909)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Wild Flowers Of Australia
Oh say not that no perfume dwells;
The wilding flowers among,
Say not that in the forest dells
Is heard no voice of song.
The air is laden with the scent
Borne from the clustering flower,
With which the wattle is besprent;
Like Danae’s golden shower.
And silv’ry wattles bending low,
Sweet incense scatter far—
When night-winds kiss the pensile bough,
Beneath the evening star.
And there are flowers of varying dye;
Now white, now blushing red,
Their beauteous blossoms charm the eye,
And fragrant odours shed.
There’s perfume breath’d from Austral flowers,—
And melody is there
Not such as in far Albion’s bowers
Falls on th’ accustom’d ear.
But thrilling snatches of wild song,
Pour’d forth from lonely glen—
Where winds the hidden creek along
Far from the haunts of men.
And hoarser notes in wild woods heard
Sound like strange harmonies,
As flashes past the bright-winged bird
Gleaming in azure skies.
Then say not that no perfume dwells,
The wilding flowers among;
Say not that in the forest dells
Is heard no voice of song!
poem by Caroline Carleton
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Nightingales
Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come,
And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom
Ye learn your song:
Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,
Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air
Bloom the year long!
Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:
Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,
A throe of the heart,
Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,
No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,
For all our art.
Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men
We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,
As night is withdrawn
From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,
Dream, while the innumerable choir of day
Welcome the dawn.
poem by Robert Seymour Bridges
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Voice, The
Safe in the magic of my woods
I lay, and watched the dying light.
Faint in the pale high solitudes,
And washed with rain and veiled by night,
Silver and blue and green were showing.
And the dark woods grew darker still;
And birds were hushed; and peace was growing;
And quietness crept up the hill;
And no wind was blowing
And I knew
That this was the hour of knowing,
And the night and the woods and you
Were one together, and I should find
Soon in the silence the hidden key
Of all that had hurt and puzzled me --
Why you were you, and the night was kind,
And the woods were part of the heart of me.
And there I waited breathlessly,
Alone; and slowly the holy three,
The three that I loved, together grew
One, in the hour of knowing,
Night, and the woods, and you ----
And suddenly
There was an uproar in my woods,
The noise of a fool in mock distress,
Crashing and laughing and blindly going,
Of ignorant feet and a swishing dress,
And a Voice profaning the solitudes.
The spell was broken, the key denied me
And at length your flat clear voice beside me
Mouthed cheerful clear flat platitudes.
You came and quacked beside me in the wood.
You said, "The view from here is very good!"
You said, "It's nice to be alone a bit!"
And, "How the days are drawing out!" you said.
You said, "The sunset's pretty, isn't it?"
* * * * *
By God! I wish -- I wish that you were dead!
poem by Rupert Brooke
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The Voice of Love
After a long solitary confinement
In deep love for someone
I heard a song
A song in the woods
Where I stood
The woods which stood in the solitude
There was nobody
Nobody except me
Nobody heard the song
Which rapped in the woods
Somewhere, but I didn't know where
The song I heard wasn't raspy
Neither soft nor melodious
The song I heard was heart-strucken'd
There was a tone
A tune where you can find
A rapt of love.
The song has given pathogen in me
Who's that guy?
Singing in love
Crying and dying in love?
I listened to the song carefully
Now I found
The lonely woods are in me
And the song I heard
was the voice
The voice of love in me.
poem by D'menz Veen
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Songs For Scarlett
THE SUNLIGHT CAUGHT IN HER VOICE
The darkness
of her hair
& the blue
in her eye
sang of her
& transformed
the world
into a beauty
a child could see
notes like
drops of rain dripping
from a branch
the sunlight caught
in her voice
memory forever
holding still
the song of the blue
in her eye
the song of the darkness
in her hair.
* * * * * * *
AND THE SONG SUNG
And the song
sung to please
had its own
song
that hid
within the song
or ran in &
out among the words
like delighted child
hovering above
or lingering below
the melody line
the song of my mother
singing singing
as if her heart
would break
or break
the heart of others
the song
that sang her
hiding now
at its finish
in the toss of her hair
the tear in her eye.
* * * * * * *
EVEN TIME STOPPED TO LISTEN
In my mind
you will be
always singing
forever held
in the spell
of your voice
even Time
stops to listen
& I
always your child
lost in the magic
of your song
eternally.
* * * * * * *
I awoke at 2.30 in the morning with the image of your mother and the song of her blue eyes and black hair singing in my mind and wrote these 3 poems down as if in a dream and went to sleep again. I awoke to the morning and they were still there. I hope they do her justice. See now how you who have set her singing in your poems…set her singing in my heart now.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
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A Song For All Day
A rollicking song for the morn, my boy,
A rollicking song for the morn:
It's up and out with a laugh and shout,
While the bright sun circles the world about,
And the dew is on the corn, my boy,
The dew is on the corn.
Barefoot, brown, with trousers torn,
It's up and out with the morn.
A jolly good song for the noon, my boy,
A jolly good song for the noon:
It's out and away where the wild woods sway,
And the wind and the birds have a holiday,
And whistle an oldtime tune, my boy,
And whistle an oldtime tune.
Healthy, happy, a heart of June,
It's out in the woods at noon.
A wonderful song for the eve, my boy,
A wonderful song for the eve:
The sunset's bars and a trail of stars,
And the falls of the creek a mine of spars,
Or a weft of crystal weave, my boy,
A weft of crystal weave.
Hungry, tired, with nothing to grieve,
It's home again at eve.
A lullaby song for the night, my boy,
A lullaby song for the night:
When crickets cry and owlets fly,
And the house-hound bays the moon on high,
And the window-lamp shines bright, my boy,
The window-lamp shines bright.
A drowsy kiss and a bed snow-white,
And a lullaby-song for the night.
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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Night Shower.
It rained yesterday night,
Blocking the full moon,
Cooling the hot winds,
Rain dancing on the ocean,
Making the birds shiver,
Wet with the rain,
They huddled together,
The rain making small streams
Seen through rays of noon,
Which stole through dark clouds,
The trees swaying
In we wind, whistling
Through it's branches,
Night rain making ghouls
Not venture out,
Lest they get wet,
The forest animals happy,
That their lakes will be full again,
For their daily drink,
Let the night rain continue
To coll the souls inside,
And the body outside.
Ravikiran Arakkal
poem by Ravikiran Arakkal
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With The Lark
Night is for sorrow and dawn is for joy,
Chasing the troubles that fret and annoy;
Darkness for sighing and daylight for song,--
Cheery and chaste the strain, heartfelt and strong.
All the night through, though I moan in the dark,
I wake in the morning to sing with the lark.
Deep in the midnight the rain whips the leaves,
Softly and sadly the wood-spirit grieves.
But when the first hue of dawn tints the sky,
I shall shake out my wings like the birds and be dry;
And though, like the rain-drops, I grieved through the dark,
I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.
On the high hills of heaven, some morning to be,
Where the rain shall not grieve thro' the leaves of the tree,
There my heart will be glad for the pain I have known,
For my hand will be clasped in the hand of mine own;
And though life has been hard and death's pathway been dark,
I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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I'm April the seventh
it's April the seventh
and I'm April the seventh
with drops of rain beating my heart away
with drops of wine dried in my mouth
and tango I've just danced
it's April the seventh
and I'm April the seventh
sitting in the dark room
after a head over heal night
and the tango I've just danced
it's April the seventh
I'm April the seventh
Lazarus's Saturday and children's bells
all tinkling across my street
all tinkling across my heart
it's April the seventh
and I'm April the seventh
with a scarf around my neck
and high heels on my feet
and the tango I've just danced
it's April the seventh
and I'm April the seventh
with a book I'm about to read
a cigarette I am about to smoke
and the tango I've just danced
it's April the seventh
I'm April the seventh
Lazarus's Saturday and children's bells
all tinkling across my street
all tinkling across my heart
it's April the seventh
and I'm April the seventh
with a kiss left on my left hand
feet shuffling all along the floor
and the tango I've just danced
all tinkling across my heart
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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The Green Woods Of Truagh
In the green woods of Truagh we met without fear,
Your kiss on my lips, and your voice in my ear,
Your tender arms about me, and your eyes glad and clear–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh the days go on wings,
On every brown branch a gladsome bird sings
And the fragrant amber blossom of the honey-suckle swings–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh the bracken stands high,
And wells of spring-water in deep hollows lie,
And the red deer is browsing in the cool shadows nigh–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh no sorrow dared stay,
The lark called me early at dawn o' the day,
And o'er my sleep at night pleasant dreams used to play–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh you wait till I come–
I left home and you for the stranger's far home,
To bring a hoard of yellow gold across the grey foam–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh–if God hears my prayer–
I shall reach you, O true love, my empty hands there,
For little of the yellow gold has fallen to my share–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh–your heart on my own,
And your bright hair in ringlets across my cheek blown
Now where in all the wide, wide world, could greater bliss be known?
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
poem by Anna Johnston MacManus
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By The Arno
THE oleander on the wall
Grows crimson in the dawning light,
Though the grey shadows of the night
Lie yet on Florence like a pall.
The dew is bright upon the hill,
And bright the blossoms overhead,
But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,
The little Attic song is still.
Only the leaves are gently stirred
By the soft breathing of the gale,
And in the almond-scented vale
The lonely nightingale is heard.
The day will make thee silent soon,
O nightingale sing on for love!
While yet upon the shadowy grove
Splinter the arrows of the moon.
Before across the silent lawn
In sea-green mist the morning steals,
And to love's frightened eyes reveals
The long white fingers of the dawn
Fast climbing up the eastern sky
To grasp and slay the shuddering night,
All careless of my heart's delight,
Or if the nightingale should die.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Hymn Sung At A Sacred Concert At Columbia, S.C.
I
Faint falls the gentle voice of prayer
In the wild sounds that fill the air,
Yet, Lord, we know that voice is heard,
Not less than if Thy throne it stirred.
II
Thine ear, thou tender One, is caught,
If we but bend the knee in thought;
No choral song that shakes the sky
Floats farther than the Christian's sigh.
III
Not all the darkness of the land
Can hide the lifted eye and hand;
Nor need the clanging conflict cease,
To make Thee hear our cries for peace.
poem by Henry Timrod
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Hymn - A Sacred Concert
I
Faint falls the gentle voice of prayer
In the wild sounds that fill the air,
Yet, Lord, we know that voice is heard,
Not less than if Thy throne it stirred.
II
Thine ear, thou tender One, is caught,
If we but bend the knee in thought;
No choral song that shakes the sky
Floats farther than the Christian's sigh.
III
Not all the darkness of the land
Can hide the lifted eye and hand;
Nor need the clanging conflict cease,
To make Thee hear our cries for peace.
poem by Henry Timrod
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September's Brought The Spring
The golden whistler whistles on the gray gum tree
And lyrebird in good mood for mimicry
And magpie piping in the morning gray
And currawong tell rain not far away.
I love the hills of Sherbrooke in the Spring
When wattles bloom and all the free birds sing
The voice of yellow tailed black cockatoo
And spotted dove utter his mating coo.
The rhododendrons flushed with bright pink flowers
And the trees look greener after cool spring showers
September brings with it rich greenery
And nest building birds prepare for family.
Were I a bard born with the gift of rhyme
I'd write a song for Sherbrooke in Springtime
And I'd sing my song that some might wish to hear
Of Sherbrooke in September of the year.
The yellow robin singing in the wind and rain
And the sky turn bright and the sun shine out again
And in Sherbrooke woods the wild and free birds sing
And September's come and brought with it the Spring.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Line-Storm Song
The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,
The road is forlorn all day,
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,
And the hoof-prints vanish away.
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
Expend their bloom in vain.
Come over the hills and far with me,
And be my love in the rain.
The birds have less to say for themselves
In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves,
Although they are no less there:
All song of the woods is crushed like some
Wild, easily shattered rose.
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
Where the boughs rain when it blows.
There is the gale to urge behind
And bruit our singing down,
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind
From which to gather your gown.
What matter if we go clear to the west,
And come not through dry-shod?
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast
The rain-fresh goldenrod.
Oh, never this whelming east wind swells
But it seems like the sea’s return
To the ancient lands where it left the shells
Before the age of the fern;
And it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain.
poem by Robert Frost
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Twentyfour Hours
Morning skies of blue,
morning drops of dew,
some overhead,
some beneath my feet,
They both come into view.
Afternoon sun so bright,
afternoon heat so white,
some on my skin
how I feel it burn.
It makes me welcome the night.
Evening sounds I hear,
evening sounds appear
when all is quiet,
no noise of the day
is there to interfere.
Peaceful dark of night,
peaceful with no light.
Nothing overhead
tucked up in my bed,
I've nothing but dreams in my sight.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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My Song
I have no song
But still I sing
I let my voice
Fly on wing
For even though
My heart is bare
I have a song
Yet to spare
The song I sing
It has not one word
But far and wide
It's ever heard
My song is
Universal see
Song of wild
Always free
Sung by many
Sung by one
Sung beneath
A dying sun
Song of joy
Yet song of pain
Song of long nights
In the rain
Song of battles
Song of strife
Song of death
But also life
I'll sing untill
I have no breath
And then I'll sing
My song in death
poem by Anonymous Ghurl
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The Daylight is Dying
The daylight is dying
Away in the west,
The wild birds are flying
In silence to rest;
In leafage and frondage
Where shadows are deep,
They pass to its bondage—
The kingdom of sleep.
And watched in their sleeping
By stars in the height,
They rest in your keeping,
Oh, wonderful night.
When night doth her glories
Of starshine unfold,
’Tis then that the stories
Of bush-land are told.
Unnumbered I hold them
In memories bright,
But who could unfold them,
Or read them aright?
Beyond all denials
The stars in their glories
The breeze in the myalls
Are part of these stories.
The waving of grasses,
The song of the river
That sings as it passes
For ever and ever,
The hobble-chains’ rattle,
The calling of birds,
The lowing of cattle
Must blend with the words.
Without these, indeed, you
Would find it ere long,
As though I should read you
The words of a song
That lamely would linger
When lacking the rune,
The voice of the singer,
The lilt of the tune.
But, as one half-hearing
An old-time refrain,
With memory clearing,
Recalls it again,
These tales, roughly wrought of
The bush and its ways,
May call back a thought of
The wandering days,
And, blending with each
In the memories that throng,
There haply shall reach
You some echo of song.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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