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The Rosary

Not on the lute, nor harp of many strings
Shall all men praise the Master of all song.
Our life is brief, one saith, and art is long;
And skilled must be the laureates of kings.
Silent, O lips that utter foolish things!
Rest, awkward fingers striking all notes wrong!
How from your toil shall issue, white and strong,
Music like that God's chosen poet sings?

There is one harp that any hand can play,
And from its strings what harmonies arise!
There is one song that any mouth can say, --
A song that lingers when all singing dies.
When on their beads our Mother's children pray
Immortal music charms the grateful skies.

poem by Joyce Kilmer
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The Master-Player

AN old worn harp that had been played
Till all its strings were loose and frayed,
Joy, Hate and Fear, each one essayed,
To play. But each in turn had found
No sweet responsiveness of sound
Then Love the Master-Player came
With heaving breast and eyes aflame;
The harp he took all undismayed,
Smote on its strings, still strange to song,
And brought forth music sweet and strong.

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Unstrung

My skies were blue, and my sun was bright,
And, with fingers tender and strong and light,
He woke up the music that slept before—
Echoing, echoing evermore!

By-and-by, my skies grew grey;—
No master-touch on the harp-strings lay,—
Dead silence cradled the notes divine:
His soul had wander'd away from mine.

Idly, o'er strange harps swept his hand,
Seeking for music more wild and grand.
He wearied at last of his fruitless quest,
And he came again to my harp for rest.

But the dust lay thick on the golden wires,
And they would not thrill to the old desires.
The chords, so broken and jarred with pain,
Could never be tender and sweet again.

poem by Ada Cambridge
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My Music Is My Life

MUSIC IS MY LIFE

I am just sitting here,
Making love to my guitar
Strumming out music,
My love doesn’t stray too far.

My music is my life,
And my love is a heart filled song.
As long as I’m singing,
I know there can be no wrong.

Hugs and kisses come easy,
From the strings that I caress.
There is nothing more pretty,
Than my guitar in full dress.

My music is my life,
And my love is a heart filled song.
As long as I’m singing,
I know there can be no wrong.

I am carried into ecstasy
With each note that floats out
Feel the music within me,
It’s busting its way out.

My music is my life,
And my love is a heart filled song.
As long as I’m singing,
I know there can be no wrong.

Play the music with me,
Sing and raise your voice.
You will feel the love of Music,
Your heart will have no choice.

My music is my life,
And my love is a heart filled song.
As long as I’m singing,
I know there can be no wrong.

Life cannot deny me love,
Or the music that’s inside me
The melodies are my heart and soul,
And it will always be my decree.

REB (FEB 2012) Dedicated to Twig Sullivan, because music is her life

poem by Rik Bertrand
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Music Is My Life

I am just sitting here,
Making love to my guitar
Strumming out music,
My love doesn't stray too far.

My music is my life,
And my love is a heart filled song.
As long as I'm singing,
I know there can be no wrong.

Hugs and kisses come easy,
From the strings that I caress.
There is nothing more pretty,
Than my guitar in full dress.

My music is my life,
And my love is a heart filled song.
As long as I'm singing,
I know there can be no wrong.

I am carried into ecstasy
With each note that floats out
Feel the music within me,
It's busting its way out.

My music is my life,
And my love is a heart filled song.
As long as I'm singing,
I know there can be no wrong.

Play the music with me,
Sing and raise your voice.
You will feel the love of Music,
Your heart will have no choice.

My music is my life,
And my love is a heart filled song.
As long as I'm singing,
I know there can be no wrong.

Life cannot deny me love,
Or the music that's inside me
The melodies are my heart and soul,
And it will always be my decree.

REB (FEB 2012) Dedicated to Twig Sullivan, because music is her life

poem by Rik Bertrand
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Bryant

The harp has fallen from the master's hand;
Mute is the music, voiceless are the strings,
Save such faint discord as the wild wind flings
In sad aeolian murmurs through the land.
The tide of melody, whose billows grand
Flowed o'er the world in clearest utterings,
Now, in receding current, sobs and sings
That song we never wholly understand.
* * O, eyes where glorious prophecies belong,
And gracious reverence to humbly bow,
And kingly spirit, proud, and pure, and strong;
O, pallid minstrel with the laureled brow,
And lips so long attuned to sacred song,
How sweet must be the Heavenly anthem now!

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Sweet Music Man

I didn't listen, and I couldn't see,
And all I have left now,
Are words she gave to me
Sing me a song sweet music man,
'Cause I won't be there to hold your hand
Like I used to,
I'm through with you
You touched my soul with your beautiful song
You even had me singing along right with you
You said "I needed you"
But then you changed the words and that harmony
And you sang that song you'd written for me
To someone new
But nobody sings a love song quite like you do,
And nobody else can make me sing along,
And nobody else can make me feel
That things are right when they're wrong,
Nobody sings a love song quite like you.
Sing me a song sweet music man,
Your making a living doing one night stands
that do for you what you need them to
Your still a hell of a singer but a broken man
And you surround yourself with people who demand
So little of you
But nobody sings a love song quite like you do,
And nobody else can make me sing along,
And nobody else can make me feel,
That things are right when they're wrong
with a song,
Nobody sings a love song quite like you.
So sing me a song sad music man,
I believe in you

song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Israphel

A dreamer midst the stars doth dwell,
Known to the gods as Israphel.
His heart-strings are a lute;
And when, the magic notes outpouring,
He parts his lips, the gods, adoring,
Listen in transport mute,
Subdued and softened by the spell
Of the dreamer, Israphel!

And mortals, when they hear him, start,
And, full of wonder, call him—Art,
And, fain his gift to gain,
Essay to imitate the fashion
Of his rare song, and breathe its passion,—
But, ah, they strive in vain;
For his song is more than art,
Whose lute-strings are his heart!

And others, unto whom he wings
The sweetest melodies he sings,
In worship, name him—Love;
Yet longing the pure strain to capture,
When at the very height of rapture,
A sadness oft approve,
And fancy, strangely, that he wrings
The music from their own heart-strings!

poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Harps We Love

The harp we love hath a royal burst!
Its strings are mighty forest trees;
And branches, swaying to and fro,
Are fingers sounding symphonies.

The harp we love hath a solemn sound!
And rocks amongst the shallow seas
Are strings from which the rolling waves
Draw forth their stirring harmonies.

The harp we love hath a low sweet voice!
Its strings are in the bosom deep,
And Love will press those hidden chords
When all the baser passions sleep.

poem by Henry Kendall
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An Anarchist

False to his art and to the high command
God laid upon him, Markham's rebel hand
Beats all in vain the harp he touched before:
It yields a jingle and it yields no more.
No more the strings beneath his finger-tips
Sing harmonies divine. No more his lips,
Touched with a living coal from sacred fires,
Lead the sweet chorus of the golden wires.
The voice is raucous and the phrases squeak;
They labor, they complain, they sweat, they reek!
The more the wayward, disobedient song
Errs from the right to celebrate the wrong,
More diligently still the singer strums,
To drown the horrid sound, with all his thumbs.
Gods, what a spectacle! The angels lean
Out of high Heaven to view the sorry scene,
And Israfel, 'whose heart-strings are a lute,'
Though now compassion makes their music mute,
Among the weeping company appears,
Pearls in his eyes and cotton in his ears.

poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Harp of Heavens Plucked a String

Harp of heavens plucked a string,
Vibrate its metal and iron rings
And the melody so pure, crafted fingers could play
Or is it master's art put into the fine tunes
Magician's spell of the silent night
Flee so pure in the heart of rhythm
My delight
Echoes the land, echoes the skies
And the night and day grey in dawn of a new era
Where a heart is born
The soulful music of harp, laughter of my friend
Puts to tune my rusty strings...

poem by Lama Abbas
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The Song

There is a song in my head.
It won't allow me to rest.
I still feel the melody playing in my breast.
The melody, the memory of your touch.
The harmony, the joy of my thighs and my lips,
As we welcomed you.
There is no music; I long for you,
Our dance and the movement of your hips.
The taste of you still lingers on the tip of my tongue.
We both sung this our beautiful song.
The senses have not forgotten you.
The song in my head, its like none I have heard.
It needs the music, that only you can play,
Gently on my back with your finger tips
Oh please give me peace.
Let us sing this song, I long for release.
There is a song in my head….

poem by Monciana Edmondson
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Lay Down Your Weary Tune

Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
Struck by the sounds before the sun,
I knew the night had gone.
The morning breeze like a bugle blew
Against the drums of dawn.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
The ocean wild like an organ played,
The seaweeds wove its strands.
The crashin waves like cymbals clashed
Against the rocks and sands.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
I stood unwound beneath the skies
And clouds unbound by laws.
The cryin rain like a trumpet sang
And asked for no applause.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.
The last of leaves fell from the trees
And clung to a new loves breast.
The branches bare like a banjo played
To the winds that listened best.
I gazed down in the rivers mirror
And watched its winding strum.
The water smooth ran like a hymn
And like a harp did hum.
Lay down your weary tune, lay down,
Lay down the song you strum,
And rest yourself neath the strength of strings
No voice can hope to hum.

song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The songster

Music, music with throb and swing,
Of a plaintive note, and long;
'Tis a note no human throat could sing,
No harp with its dulcet golden string,--
Nor lute, nor lyre with liquid ring,
Is sweet as the robin's song.

He sings for love of the season
When the days grow warm and long,
For the beautiful God-sent reason
That his breast was born for song.

Calling, calling so fresh and clear,
Through the song-sweet days of May;
Warbling there, and whistling here,
He swells his voice on the drinking ear,
On the great, wide, pulsing atmosphere
Till his music drowns the day.

He sings for love of the season
When the days grow warm and long,
For the beautiful God-sent reason
That his breast was born for song.

poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Sweet Music Man

Sing a song sweet music man
cause I wont be there to hold your hand like I used to
Im through with you
Youre a heck of a singer and powerful man
But you surround yourself with people
Who demand so little of you
You touched my soul with your beautiful song
You even had me singin along right with you
You said I need you
Then you changed the words and added harmony
Then you sang the song you had written for me to someone new
Oh, but nobody sings a love song quite like you do
Oh, and nobody else can make me sing along
Nobody else can make me feel things are right
When I know theyre wrong
Nobody sings a love song quite like you
Sing your song sweet music man
Travel the world with a six piece band
That does for you what you tell em to
And you try to stay young but the songs are sung
To so many people whove all begun came back on you
Sing your song sad music man
Makin your living doing one-night stands
Theyre through with you
They dont need you
Youre still a heck of a singer but a broken man
But youll keep on lookin for one last fan to sing to
Oh, and nobody sings a love song quite like you do
Oh, and nobody else can make me sing along
And nobody else can make me feel things are right
When theyre wrong with a song
Nobody sings a love song quite like you
Tag:
Sing your song sweet music man
I believe in you

song performed by by Dolly Parton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ocean of Forms

I dive down into the depth of the ocean of forms,
hoping to gain the perfect pearl of the formless.

No more sailing from harbor to harbor with this my weather-beaten boat.
The days are long passed when my sport was to be tossed on waves.

And now I am eager to die into the deathless.

Into the audience hall by the fathomless abyss
where swells up the music of toneless strings
I shall take this harp of my life.

I shall tune it to the notes of forever,
and when it has sobbed out its last utterance,
lay down my silent harp at the feet of the silent.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Music is...

Music is...
Music is expression...
Music is freedom...
Music is the song of life...
Music is notes...
Music is noise...
Music is beat...
Music is relaxing...
Music is peace...
Music is loud...
Music is calm...
Music is meaningful...
Music is sound...
Music is heart...
Music is soul...
Music is mind...
Music is body...
Music is nature...
Music is language...
Music is the song of my life...
Music is everything...
Music is me...
Music is....

poem by Madeline anderson
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To a friend, on being asked for some verses

I thought the Soul of Song had made
This heart of mine her sepulchre;
For all her golden dreams had fled,
And I could win no note from her.

But when for thee thou bid'st her sing,
That spell dissolves her icy chain;
She slowly plumes her drooping wing,
And strikes her shattered chords again.

For more than lifeless would she be,
If thou shouldst bid her wake in vain;
And lost her chords, if still for thee
She could not wake one living strain.

For thee -- that hours of deep distress,
And days of gloom with kindness lit,
Till half I blessed the bitterness
That gave me thee to sweeten it.

For thee -- that when, despairing long,
I said, "No friend has earth for me,"
Didst bid the tones die on my tongue,
And I could utter, "only thee."

For thee -- that when my mother earth
Shall call me to her sheltering breast,
Of all I know wilt weep alone
Above my nameless place of rest.

But see! her wings refuse to fly;
Her chords are harsh from silence long;
Alas! thy gentle sorcery
Hath summoned but the ghost of Song.

She hovers o'er her living tomb,
She seeks once more her grave and chain,
As spectres haunt the midnight gloom:
Sweet friend, awake her not again.

If o'er the wind harp's gentle strings
The threatening tempest rudely flies,
It does not wake more thrilling strains --
The chords are rent, the music dies.

Thus is my harp, thus is my song --
I woo in vain its sweetness fled,
The storms have swept the chords too long,
The music of my soul is dead.

poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Horace To His Lute

If ever in the sylvan shade
A song immortal we have made,
Come now, O lute, I pri' thee come--
Inspire a song of Latium.

A Lesbian first thy glories proved--
In arms and in repose he loved
To sweep thy dulcet strings and raise
His voice in Love's and Liber's praise;
The Muses, too, and him who clings
To Mother Venus' apron-strings,
And Lycus beautiful, he sung
In those old days when you were young.

O shell, that art the ornament
Of Phoebus, bringing sweet content
To Jove, and soothing troubles all--
Come and requite me, when I call!

poem by Eugene Field
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To His Lute

If ever in the sylvan shade
A song immortal we have made,
Come now, O lute, I prithee come,
Inspire a song of Latium!

A Lesbian first thy glories proved;
In arms and in repose he loved
To sweep thy dulcet strings, and raise
His voice in Love's and Liber's praise.
The Muses, too, and him who clings
To Mother Venus' apron-strings,
And Lycus beautiful, he sung
In those old days when you were young.

O shell, that art the ornament
Of Phoebus, bringing sweet content
To Jove, and soothing troubles all,--
Come and requite me, when I call!

poem by Eugene Field
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After My Death

After my death mourn me this way:
'There was a man-and see: he is no more;
before his time this man died
and his life's song in mid-bar stopped;
and oh, it is sad! One more song he had
and now the song is gone for good,
gone for good!

And it is very sad!-a harp too he had
a living being and murmurous
and the poet in his words in it
all of his heart's secret revealed,
and all the strings his hand gave breath
but one secret his heart kept hid,
round and round his fingers played,
and one string stayed mute,
mute to this day!

And it is sad, very sad!
All of her days this string moved,
mute she moved, mute she shook,
for her song, her beloved redeemer
she yearned, thirsted, grieved and longed
as a heart pines for its intended:
and though he hesitated each day she waited
and in a secret moan begged for him to come,
and he hesitated and never came,
never came!

And great, great is the pain!
There was a man-and see: he is no more,
and his life's song in mid-bar stopped,
one more song he had to go,
and now the song is gone for good,
gone for good!

poem by Hayyim Nahman Bialik
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