The Song
When I would sing of crooked streams and fields,
On, on from me they stretch too far and wide,
And at their look my song all powerless yields,
And down the river bears me with its tide;
Amid the fields I am a child again,
The spots that then I loved I love the more,
My fingers drop the strangely scrawling pen,
And I remember nought but nature's lore,
I plunge me in the river's cooling wave,
Or on the embroidered bank admiring lean,
Now some endangered insect life to save,
Now watch the pictured flowers and grasses green;
Forever playing where a boy I played,
By hill and grove, by field and stream delayed.
poem by Jones Very
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Medway Song
(Air: Carnaval de Venise)
LET Housman sing of Severn shore,
Of Thames let Arnold sing,
But we will sing no river more
Save this where crowbars ring.
Let others sing of Henley,
Of fashion and renown,
But we will sing the thirteen locks
That lead to Tonbridge town!
Then sing the Kentish river,
The Kentish fields and flowers,
We waste no dreams on other streams
Who call the Medway ours.
When on the level golden meads
The evening sunshine lies,
The little voles among the reeds
Look out with wondering eyes.
The patient anglers linger
The placid stream beside,
Where still with towering tarry prow
The stately barges glide.
Then sing the Kentish river,
The Kentish fields and flowers,
We waste no dreams on other streams
Who call the Medway ours.
On Medway banks the May droops white,
The wild rose blossoms fair,
O'er meadow-sweet and loosestrife bright,
For water nymphs to wear.
And mid the blowing rushes
Pan pipes a joyous song,
And woodland things peep from the shade
As soft we glide along.
Then sing the Kentish river,
The Kentish fields and flowers,
We waste no dreams on other streams
Who call the Medway ours.
You see no freight on Medway boats
Of fashions fine and rare,
But happy men in shabby coats,
And girls with wind-kissed hair.
The world's a pain forgotten,
And very far away,
The stream that flows, the boat that goes--
These are our world to-day.
Then sing the Kentish river,
The Kentish fields and flowers,
We waste no dreams on other streams
Who call the Medway ours.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Alde
How near I walked to Love,
How long, I cannot tell.
I was like the Alde that flows
Quietly through green level lands,
So quietly, it knows
Their shape, their greenness and their shadows well;
And then undreamingly for miles it goes
And silently, beside the sea.
Seamews circle over,
The winter wildfowl wings,
Long and green the grasses wave
Between the river and the sea.
The sea's cry, wild or grave,
From bank to low bank of the river rings;
But the uncertain river though it crave
The sea, knows not the sea.
Was that indeed salt wind?
Came that noise from falling
Wild waters on a stony shore?
Oh, what is this new troubling tide
Of eager waves that pour
Around and over, leaping, parting, recalling?…
How near I moved (as day to same day wore)
And silently, beside the sea!
poem by John Freeman
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Those Green Fields Of Kilmeedy
Those green fields of Kilmeedy I do remember still
They meet the gorse and bracken at the foot of Clara hill
A place of peace and beauty with mountains all around
Scarce touched by man's pollution where Nature's joys abound.
Even in summer in Kilmeedy the dawn comes with a chill
But skylark he is piping above the bracken hill
Through Spring and through the Summer he sings all through the day
And I fancy I can hear him o'er mountains far away.
The robin he is piping on flowering hawthorn tree
Across the miles of distance his music comes to me
And dunnock on the hedgerow and dipper in the stream
And song thrush piping gaily on ash by old bohreen.
All through the Spring and Summer the wildering flowers are seen
But green fields of Kilmeedy not always quite so green
In November and December the winds of Winter blow
And January and February bring frost and sleet and snow.
In mid March in Kilmeedy the first wildflowers appear
And weather still quite chilly though days of bloom are near
But April brings her blossoms and leaves behind her green
And May comes o'er the mountain the summer beauty queen.
Those green fields of kilmeedy I see them every day
And I hear the skylark piping o'er hillsides far away
And dunnock on the hedgerow and the dipper in the stream
And those green fields of Kilmeedy have never looked so green.
poem by Francis Duggan
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My river bank
The water hit the bank
Like a wave upon a shore
Happiness just out of reach
Finding that is something you can’t teach
No one to talk to
No one to see
As you can tell just me
I sit alone on my river bank
No happy people passing by as I let out a gentle sigh
I realized I sit alone on my river bank
Unreal happiness in this unreal tournament they call life
I sit alone, isolated on my river bank
I shall always sit alone on my river bank
I will always be alone on this river bank
poem by EmOzEd johnston
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This River
this river is a wide and long stretch
of brown dreams
it is silent its ripples are like moving threads
it has a song of its own
that only your heart can sing
we sail this river again
this ealy morning when the sun still hides itself
in the nipa palms
we sit side by side as the boat takes its time
we hold our hands
we are still lovers throught the years
we look forward to the same direction
it will not take that long
at the end we will see again the cascades
we will hear the flow of the mountain springs
we will again remember
the harmony of what we once were
do you hear that cascading song of the water?
that is the song of the river that in my heart i always treasure
together and forever
we will cascade, my love, like this long, brown river to the sea
of our daily affections
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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An Old Idea
STREAM of my life, dull, placid river, flow!
I have no fear of the ingulfing seas:
Neither I look before me nor behind,
But, lying mute with wave-dipped hand, float on.
It was not always so. My brethren, see
This oar-stained, trembling palm. It keeps the sign
Of youth's mad wrestling with the waves that drift
Immutably, eternally along.
I would have had them flow through fields and flowers,
Giving and taking freshness, perfume, joy;
It winds through--here. Be silent, O my soul!
--The finger of God's wisdom drew its line.
So I lean back and look up to the stars,
And count the ripples circling to the shore,
And watch the solemn river rolling on
Until it widen to the open seas.
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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In Green Old Duhallow From Here Far Away
The fields in their beautiful wildflowers of May
In green old Duhallow from here far away
And nesting birds sing in grove and on hedgerow
In Cullen where Araglen waters do flow
On to the Blackwater en route to the sea
The old river babbles on eternally
Through a Countryside that is as ancient as time
That has inspired poets of the past for to rhyme
About the great beauty around them they had seen
In May when the landscape was looking so green
For May is a beautiful time of the year
In green old Duhallow so far north of here
The wonders of Nature a thing to enjoy
The cock pheasants are cucking in old Lisnaboy
In fancy I am back in the long ago
Just remembering a beauty that I used to know.
Were I a poet of such beauty I would write
White butterflies flitting in the warm sunlight
and cock robin with the sun on his red breast sing
In green old Duhallow in the latter Spring.
In fancy the song of the chaffinch I hear
In green old Duhallow so far north of here
Where the babbling waters of Araglen flow
Through fields to the Blackwater by grove and hedgerow.
poem by Francis Duggan
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It Is Spring Now In The Northlands
It is Spring now in the Northlands the Northlands far away
And the hawthorns are heavily laden in their white blooms of the May
And the hooded crow is cawing in his cloak of black and gray
And the white breasted dipper singing in the river all the day.
It is Spring now in the Northlands and cock robin all day long
On the trees around his borders sings his territorial song
And the stream from the foothills by the hedgerows babbling down
On it's journey to the river through the old fields by the town.
It is Spring now in the Northlands a delightful time of year
And the voice of the migrant cuckoo is a pleasant thing to hear
When one has the whims of fancy 'tis not hard to visualize
The songs of Nature's feathered minstrels at daybreak before sunrise.
It is Spring now in the Northlands and the fields are looking green
Where the wildering flowers of Nature in abundance can be seen
And primroses, snowdrops and bluebells bloom on ditch of the bohreen
When one talks of Nature's Seasons Spring is surely beauty queen.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Black Muddy River
When the last rose of summer pricks my finger,
And the hot sun chills me to the bone,
When I cant hear the song for the singer,
And I cant tell my pillow from a stone,
I will walk alone by the black muddy river,
And sing me a song of my own,
I will walk alone by the black muddy river,
And sing me a song of my own.
When the last bolt of sunshine hits the mountain,
And the stars start to splatter in the sky,
When the moon hits the southwest horizon,
With the scream of an eagle on the fly,
I will walk alone by the black muddy river,
And listen to the ripples as they moan,
I will walk alone by the black muddy river,
And sing me a song of my own.
Black muddy river, roll on forever,
I dont care how deep or wide, if youve got another side,
Roll muddy river, roll muddy river, black muddy river, roll.
When it seems like the night will last forever,
And theres nothing left to do but count the years,
When the strings of my heart begin to sever,
And stones fall from my eyes instead of tears,
I will walk alone, by the black muddy river,
And dream me a dream of my own,
I will walk alone, by the black muddy river,
And sing me a song of my own, sing me a song of my own.
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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River Of Life
I wanted to feel like a bird
On the wings of time
But it was not our time
I wanted to lie for a while
In the fields and dream
But it was not to be, oh yeah, cause
'Cause sometimes you got to let love go
Even though it's hurting, even though
And sometimes you got to let love slide
Oh, with the river
The river of life
I wanted to hold you so long
In the dark till dawn
But I could feel you go
I wanted to sing
In my head I could hear a song
But it was not our song, oh yeah cause
'Cause sometimes you got to let love go
Even though it's hurting, even though
And sometimes you got to let love slide
Oh, with the river
The river of life
Sometimes you got to let love go
Even though it's hurting, even though
And sometimes you got to let love slide
Oh, with the river
The river of life
Oh yeah
But sometimes you got to let love slide
Oh, with the river
The river of life
The river of life
song performed by by Heather Nova
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Elegy to the Old Man Hokuju
You left in the morning, at evening my heart is in a
thousand pieces.
Why is it so far away?
Thinking of you, I go up on the hill and wander.
Around the hill, why is it such a sadness?
Dandelions yellow and shepherds-purse blooming white --
not anyone to look at them.
I hear a pheasant, calling and calling fervently.
Once a friend was there across the river, living.
Ghostly smoke rises and fades away with a west wind
strong in fields of small bamboo grasses and reedy fields.
Nowhere to leave for.
Once a friend was there across the river, living, but today
not even a bird sings a song.
You left in the morning, at evening my heart is in a
thousand pieces.
Why is it so far away?
In my grass hut by the Amida image I light no candle,
offer no flowers, and only sit here alone.
This evening, how invaluable it is.
Priest Buson
with a thousand bowings
poem by Yosa Buson
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The River Forever To The Ocean Flow
The river that flows from the hills far away
Through wetlands and dry lands by night and by day
As old as father time will journey forever more
Through the flat coastal lands en route to the sea shore.
It starts on it's journey as a trickling rill
In a pond by a rock at the base of the hill
That is far north of here even as the crow fly
The river flows on and refuses to die.
From a rill to a stream and into a river it grow
As rills and streams from other hills into it flow
It babbles and gurgles by hedgerow and tree
On it's forever journey on down to the sea.
A creek, brook, stream or river call it what you may
Near the ocean it grows to a huge water-way
And Humans like the Seasons to life come and go
But the river forever to the ocean flow
poem by Francis Duggan
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On the Grasshopper (From The Greek)
Happy songster, perch'd above,
On the summit of the grove,
Whom a dewdrop cheers to sing
With the freedom of a king,
From thy perch survey the fields
Where prolific nature yields
Nough that, willingly as she,
Man surrenders not to thee.
For hostility or hate
None thy pleasures can create.
Thee it satisfies to sing
Sweetly the return of spring,
Herald of the genial hours,
Harming neither herbs nor flowers.
Therefore man thy voice attends
Gladly -- thou and he are friends;
Nor thy never-ceasing strains,
Phoebus or the muse disdains
As too simple or too long,
For themselves inspire the song.
Earth-born, bloodless, undecaying,
Ever singing, sporting, playing
What has nature else to show
Godlike in its kind as thou?
poem by William Cowper
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River, Tide, Run
River, Tide, Run
Escape the conflict of the moon and earth
Resist the need to try
Calm your flowing arms, and
Relax your soul; the inner monster cannot be released
River, Tide, Run
Today is struggle, tomorrow is a sorrow
I watch you give up and let go
Dig in your roots and keep still
That is not your nature though
River, Tide, Run
You must flow with the currents that carry you
Wrapping your blanket around your creatures
To provide a healthy being
You must not give up
River, Tide, Run
The goddess of all love,
The soul of all sources
You should not give up
Take a stand and fight…
The River…
The Tide…
And RUN…
By, Ilana Sabio
2/25/10
poem by Ilana Sabio
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The Sea Is Very Big
Do not ask me to be the wave of some vast sea.
I can agree though if you promise that the wave of the sea
Will but lose itself in the depths of the ocean and
Return again to the refuge of the childhood river.
I do not want to merge with the sea, for
It is vast, it has too great a pride,
And I am afraid of it.
It is bent on devouring the river
in intoxicated ravenousness, but
I refuse to be its victim: only
I can be its occasional companion
some morning, or,
May even go with it to the far distance
some lazy noon.
Provided it gives me the pledge
That each evening it will restore me to the quiet
River of my childhood, which I have seen
Flowing in my body and soul from birth,
That when I shall watch my river some winter night,
Sitting on its bank, it will fill this river of mine
With a new flood tide.
No oceanic cyclone
Only the soft drip-dropp of dew, like a musical tune,
Making the two 'bakul' branches on the bank
Mildly quiver.
Note: Bakul- A kind of flower tree.
poem by Ahsan Habib
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A Farm House by the River
I know a little country place
Where still my heart doth linger,
And o'er its fields is every grace
Lined out by memory's finger.
Back from the lane where poplars grew
And aspens quake and quiver,
There stands all bath'd in summer's glow
A farm house by the river.
Its eaves are touched with golden light
So sweetly, softly shining,
And morning glories full and bright
About the doors are twining.
And there endowed with every grace
That nature's hand could giver her,
There lived the angel of the place
In the farm house by the river.
Her eyes were blue, her hair was gold,
Her face was bright and sunny;
The songs that from her bosom rolled
Were sweet as summer's honey.
And I loved her well, that maid divine,
And I prayed the Gracious Giver,
That I some day might call her mine
In the farm house by the river.
Twas not to be - but God knows best.
His will for aye be heeded!
Perhaps amid the angels' bliss,
My little love was needed.
Her spirit from its thralldom torn
Went singing o'er the river,
And that sweet life my heart shall mourn
Forever and forever.
She dies one morn at early light
When all the birds are singing,
And Heaven itself in pure delight
Its bells of joy seemed ringing.
They laid her dust where soon and late
The solemn grasses quiver,
And left alone and desolate
The farm house by the river.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Right Across The River Bend
Right across the river bend there’s a warm gentle breeze.
Right across the river-bend are trees with yellow leaves.
Right across the river bend the water reflects the sun.
Right across the river bend is a smell of innocence.
Right across the river bend a robin’s egg is broken.
Right across the river-bend are peaceful mountain valleys.
Right across the river bend a dandelion is carried.
Right across the river bend are fields of shiny green grass.
Right across the riverbend are memories made to last.
poem by Alicia Page
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An Old Picture
THERE are times when a dream delicious
Steals into a musing hour,
Like a face with love capricious
That peeps from a woodland bower;
And one dear scene comes changeless;
A wooded hill and a river;
A deep, cool bend, where the lilies end,
And the elm-tree shadows quiver.
And I lie on the brink there, dreaming
That the life I live is a dream;
That the real is but the seeming,
And the true is the sun-flecked stream.
Beneath me, the perch and the bream sail past
In the dim cool depths of the river;
The struggling fly breaks the mirrored sky
And the elm-tree shadows quiver.
There are voices of children away on the hill;
There are bees thro' the flag-flowers humming;
The lighter-man calls to the lock, and the mill
On the farther side is drumming.
And I sink to sleep in my dream of a dream,
In the grass by the brink of a river,
Where the voices blend and the lilies end
And the elm-tree shadows quiver.
Like a gift from the past is the kindly dream,
For the sorrow and passion and pain
Are adrift like the leaves on the breast of the stream,
And the child-life comes again.
O, the sweet sweet pain of a joy that died—
Of a pain that is joy forever!
O, the life that died in the stormy tide
That was once my sun-flecked river.
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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The River, Grace
Lift me up,
Take me down
From my rack.
Suspended on meat hooks
Just under my shoulder blades,
The weight of me hangs.
The river comes to me.
The river flows on.
Grace wakes up,
Says, “I will watch with you
We will be watchers
Together.”
Take me down.
Let the river run
Through my wounds;
Cleanse;
Heal.
The river comes.
The river flows.
Wash out all the refuse;
Toxic trash flushed away
Forever from me
Clear
Free
The river comes.
The river flows.
Fill me up with goodness.
Purity, rush into these holes;
Saturate in light, then
Stop up the access,
Make me whole.
River, come to me.
River, flow on.
And the river is God’s Gift.
And the river is Grace.
Lay me new baptized
In the tall grass
On the bank
Let me hear
Talking light
Beat back the night.
They sing of your source,
Your redemption renowned.
Now I join the chorus.
And the river, God’s gift,
Lift me up.
And the river, Grace
Carry me on.
poem by Lee Ann Schaffer
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Evening In Summer
Confess'd from yonder slow-extinguish'd clouds,
All ether softening, sober Evening takes
Her wonted station in the middle air;
She sends on earth; then that of deeper dye
Steals soft behind; and then a deeper still,
In circle following circle, gathers round,
To close the face of things. A fresher gale
Begins to wave the wood, and stir the stream,
Sweeping with shadowy gust the fields of corn;
While the quail clamours for his running mate.
Wide o'er the thistly lawn, as swells the breeze,
A whitening shower of vegetable down
Amusive floats. The kind impartial care
Of Nature nought disdains: thoughtful to feed
Her lowest songs, and clothe the coming year,
From field to field the feather'd seed she wings.
Among the crooked lanes, on every hedge,
The glowworm lights his gem; and through the dark
A moving radiance twinkles. Evening yields
The world to Night; not in her winter robe
Of massy Stygian woof, but loose array'd
In mantle dun. A faint erroneous ray,
Glanced from th' imperfect surfaces of things,
Flings half an image on the straining eye;
While wavering woods, and villages, and streams,
And rocks, and mountain tops, that long retain'd
Th' ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene,
Uncertain if beheld.
poem by James Thomson
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