Related quotes: The boys come home, come...

Quiet Eyes

The boys come home, come home from war,
With quiet eyes for quiet things --
A child, a lamb, a flower, a star,
A bird that softly sings.

Young faces war-worn and deep-lined,
The satin smoothness past recall;
Yet out of sight is out of mind
For the worst wrong of all.

As nightmare dreams that pass with sleep,
The horror and grief intolerable.
The unremembering young eyes keep
Their innocence. All is well!

The worldling's eyes are dusty dim,
The eyes of sin are weary and cold,
The fighting boy brings home with him
The unsullied eyes of old.

The war has furrowed the young face.
Oh, there's no all-heal, no wound-wort!
The soul looks from its hidden place
Unharmed, unflawed, unhurt.

poem by Katharine Tynan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Home

Written by: tim james, steven mcclintock and marc mancina
Home
The child in my eyes
Stares sometimes
When I was so much younger
Home
A place in the sun
Where memories run
I close my eyes and there I am
Home
The love remains
Through all the years
Through all the change
The sweetest dreams
Ive ever known
Are those of you
And those of home
Time
The turn on a page
The love someone needs
When we were there together
Steal where ever I go
Deep in my soul
A part of me is always there
Home
The love remains
Through all the years
Through all the change
The sweetest dreams
Ive ever known
Are those of you
And those of home
When you smile
And hold me in your arms
Sometimes for the moment
Im that child again
Home
The love remains
Through all the years
Through all the change
The sweetest dreams
Ive ever known
Are those of you
And those of home
Are those of you
And those of home

song performed by by Tiffany
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pussy Willow

In the half-tone light of a young morning
She sighs and shifts on the pillow.
And across her face dancing, the first shadows fly
To kiss the pussy willow.
In her fairy-tale world shes a lost soul singing
In a sad voice nobody hears.
She waits in her castle of make-believing
For her white knight to appear.
Pusy willow --- down fur-lined avenue
Brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
Runs for the train --- see, eight oclocks coming
Cutting dreams down to size again.
Pussy willow --- down fur-lined avenue
Brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
Runs from the train. hear her typewriter humming
Cutting dreams down to size again.
She longs for the east and a pale dress flowing
An apartment in old mayfair.
Or to fish the spey, spinning the first run of spring
Or to die for a cause somewhere.
Pussy willow --- down fur-lined avenue
Brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
Runs from the train. hear her typewriter humming
Cutting dreams down to size again.

song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pibroch (Cap In Hand)

In the half-tone light of a young morning
she sighs and shifts on the pillow.
And across her face dancing, the first shadows fly
to kiss the Pussy Willow.
In her fairy-tale world she's a lost soul singing
in a sad voice nobody hears.
She waits in her castle of make-believe
for her white knight to appear.
Pusy Willow down fur-lined avenue
brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
Runs for the train, see: eight o'clock's coming
cutting dreams down to size again.
Pussy Willow down fur-lined avenue,
brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
Runs from the train. Hear her typewriter humming,
cutting dreams down to size again.
She longs for the East and a pale dress flowing
an apartment in old Mayfair.
Or to fish the Spey, spinning the first run of Spring
or to die for a cause somewhere.
Pussy Willow down fur-lined avenue,
brushing the sleep from her young woman eyes.
Runs from the train. Hear her typewriter humming,
cutting dreams down to size again.
Pussy Willow, Pussy Willow, Pussy Willow, Pussy Willow.

song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Flower of Youth

LEST Heaven be thronged with grey-beards hoary,
God, who made boys for His delight,
Stoops in a day of grief and glory
And calls them in, in from the night.
When they come trooping from the war
Our skies have many a new gold star.

Heaven's thronged with gay and careless faces,
New-waked from dreams of dreadful things,
They walk in green and pleasant places
And by the crystal water-springs
Who dreamt of dying and the slain,
And the fierce thirst and the strong pain.

Dear boys! They shall be young for ever.
The Son of God was once a boy.
They run and leap by a clear river
And of their youth they have great joy.
God, who made boys so clean and good,
Smiles with the eyes of fatherhood.

Now Heaven is by the young invaded;
Their laughter's in the House of God.
Stainless and simple as He made it
God keeps the heart o' the boy unflawed.
The old wise Saints look on and smile,
They are so young and without guile.

Oh! if the sonless mothers, weeping,
And widowed girls could look inside
The glory that hath them in keeping
Who went to the Great War, and died,
They would rise and put their mourning off,
And say: 'Thank God, he has enough!'

poem by Katharine Tynan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Deep in thoughts of love, I came

Deep in thoughts of love, I came
On two young maids,
One sang: ‘It rains
On us, the joy of love.’

Their faces were so calm and sweet,
With modesty and courtesy,
I said to them: ‘You hold the key
Of all virtue and nobility.
Ah, young maids, do not scorn me
Because of the wound that I carry,
My heart has been dead inside me
Since I left Toulouse.’

They turned their gaze towards me so
They might see how I was wounded
And how a spirit born of sorrow
From my wound’s deep centre issued.
When they saw me so destroyed,
One of them smiled and said:
‘See how this man is conquered
By the power of love.’

The other filled with mercy, pity,
Made for joy, in Love’s likeness,
Said: ‘Your heart’s wound I see
Came from eyes of such excess,
Such power, they left within, a brightness
I cannot endure:
Tell me if you recall
Those eyes in you.’

To this harsh and fearful question
That the young maid asked of me,
I said: ‘In Toulouse I remember
There appeared an elegant lady,
Whom Love called la Mandetta: she
Struck me so fiercely, suddenly
To death, with her eyes, inwardly,
Through and through.’

She who had laughed at me before
Now replied most courteously:
‘She, who set herself with Love’s power
In your heart, gazed so fixedly
Into and through your eyes, that she
Made Love, himself, appear there.
If it’s deeply that you suffer
Turn to Love.’

Go to Toulouse, my little ballad,
Enter the Gilded Church there quietly,
Ask of some lovely lady, clearly,
To take you, out of courtesy,
To her of whom I told you fully:
And if you are received,
Say to her softly: ‘See,
For mercy I come to you.’

poem by Guido Cavalcanti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Home-Going

We must get home--for we have been away
So long it seems forever and a day!
And O so very homesick we have grown,
The laughter of the world is like a moan
In our tired hearing, and its songs as vain,--
We must get home--we must get home again!

We must get home: It hurts so, staying here,
Where fond hearts must be wept out tear by tear,
And where to wear wet lashes means, at best,
When most our lack, the least our hope of rest
When most our need of joy, the more our pain--
We must get home--we must get home again!

We must get home: All is so quiet there:
The touch of loving hands on brow and hair--
Dim rooms, wherein the sunshine is made mild---
The lost love of the mother and the child
Restored in restful lullabies of rain.--
We must get home--we must get home again!

We must get home, where, as we nod and drowse,
Time humors us and tiptoes through the house,
And loves us best when sleeping baby-wise,
With dreams--not tear-drops--brimming our clenched eyes,--
Pure dreams that know nor taint nor earthly stain--
We must get home--we must get home again!

We must get home; and, unremembering there
All gain of all ambitions otherwhere,
Rest--from the feverish victory, and the crown
Of conquest whose waste glory weighs us down.--
Fame's fairest gifts we toss back with disdain--
We must get home--we must get home again!

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Condoms or Pills

Young queens make…
The wrong decisions…
When not choosing…

To self protection…
Against…the erection…
And that’s raw…

An eagle claw…
Ripping away at the soul…
Their choices are not attractive…

At best…
They must pass the me first test…
Sex at such a young age…

Can and will lead the body…
To an inner rage …
Become aware of the body gage…

“Sally had a baby, he is really…
Cute…”
I want one too…

Repeated sex begins…
Over, over and over until then…
Is that birth of the child a sin…

And if not, when…
Rain coat or not…
Either, is a wet encounter…

At that age…
You are setting the stage…
Rights…to screw…that night…

Age plays a role…
As for one to not be left…
Out in the cold…
When young they are bold…

Not concerned with the soul…
Older, not bolder…
The child is getting older…

The father is gone…
Now you all alone…
You might be with another…

Yet you are still in pain…
Call your mom on the phone…
Run or walk home…

Click your heels three times…
Clicking is no crime…
Things will be fine…

Wake up young queens... it’s…
Time…

Whisperkwane

swt [email protected]

poem by whisperkwane Lamb
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Hand That Rocks The Cradle

Young life, too young, whos eyes are choking,
Cant rest, cant sleep, for dreams that set you
Falling.
Dont feel the hunger, cant drink no holy water,
No light in these eyes, no place for dreams at all
Tonight.
When the hand that rocks the cradle, is the hand
That holds the knife,
And the knife that cuts the cable, kills the spark that
Feeds the life.
Chorus:
No grave could be deep enough, down to hell if we
Were able,
The veil of life was pushed aside, by the hand that
Rocks the cradle.
The oath you take is sacred, to save not steel a life,
Like the passing of the sweetest soul, that looked
Through human eyes
Chorus
Young life, too young, whos eyes are choking,
Cant rest, cant sleep, for dreams that set you
Falling.
Dont feel the hunger, cant drink no holy water,
No light in these eyes, no place for dreams at all
Tonight.
Chorus
Its the hand that rocks the cradle, its the hand that
Steels the life.

song performed by by Black Sabbath
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Open Your Eyes

When I look into your eyes
I see a lot of hate
Pushing me away
You're haunted by a past
A past that brings you down
So you throw it all away
Again

Just try to find a place deep within your soul
And don't deny the child living deep inside
Open your eyes and find
This life's better than you know
It's in your hands now
Just open up your eyes

Deep inside of your mind
You're forced to believe
That nothing's gonna change
So I take you by the hand
And I lead you to a place
A place of happiness
Like this

song performed by by 12 Stones from 12 Stones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Woman Drowned By Culture

When this woman, no this girl,
Is drowned by her culture
her eyes hide her tears
When there is more than just a broken heart,
A family, a child, a nation, a world
In chaos, quietly creeping upon every heart
She dreams of a foreign land
Where corruption is only half as strong
She puts a brave front on
For the young child on her hip
With an unknown future
And famished eyes
For the young girls
Sold on the street like filthy possessions
She says with her eyes
What culture does not allow her to speak in words
So when man looks upon her
They don't see the covered face
But the passion and fierce hope in her sight

poem by Hana Behrs
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What's Behind My Eyes

What is behind my eyes?
A genius,
A lonely soul
One searching for comfort
Hoping for acceptance

What is behind my eyes?
A fighter
A lonely soul
Only wanting final peace
Wishing for a true friend

What is behind my eyes?
A school boy
A lonely soul
Who can't quite grasp reality
Learning new aspects of life

What is behind my eyes?
A peacekeeper
A lonely soul
Who always solves others' problems
Praying to solve his own

What is behind my eyes?
A student
A lonely soul
Constantly studying forms
Looking for some reason to live

What is behind my eyes?
A lost child
A lonely soul
Always whining and cowering
Searching for his family

What is behind my eyes?
A young teacher
A lonely soul
Never resting so that she may help
Dreaming of past happiness

What is behind my eyes?
A companion
A lonely soul
One who lends out comfort
Hoping to receive its own

What is behind my eyes?

poem by Yuki Cross
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What's behind my eyes