En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Aerodrome

So now the aerodrome goes up
Upon my father's fields,
And gone is all the golden crop
And all the pleasant yields.

They tear the trees up, branch and root,
They kill the hedges green,
As though some force, malign and brute,
Ravaged the peace serene.

There where he used to sit and gaze
With blue and quiet eyes,
Watching his comely cattle graze,
The walls begin to rise.

What place for robin or for wren,
For thrush and blackbird's call?
Now there shall be but flying men
Nor any bird at all.

'Twas well he did not stay to know,
Defaced and all defiled
The quiet fields of long ago,
Dear to him as a child.

But when the tale was told to me
I felt such piercing pain,
They tore my heart up with the tree
That will not leaf again.

poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Aerodrome

So now the aerodrome goes up
Upon my father's fields,
And gone is all the golden crop
And all the pleasant yields.

They tear the trees up, branch and root,
They kill the hedges green,
As though some force, malign and brute,
Ravaged the peace serene.

There where he used to sit and gaze
With blue and quiet eyes,
Watching his comely cattle graze,
The walls begin to rise.

What place for robin or for wren,
For thrush and blackbird's call?
Now there shall be but flying men
Nor any bird at all.

'Twas well he did not stay to know,
Defaced and all defiled
The quiet fields of long ago,
Dear to him as a child.

But when the tale was told to me
I felt such piercing pain,
They tore my heart up with the tree
That will not leaf again.

poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Destroyer

ACROSS the quiet pastures of my soul
The invading army marched in splendid might
My few poor forces fled beyond control,
Scattered, defeated, hidden in the night.

My fields were green, their hedges white with May,
With gold of buttercups made bright and fair,
The careless conquerors did not even stay
To gather one of all the blossoms there.

Only when they had passed, the fields were brown,
The grass and blossoms trampled in the mud:
The flowering hedges withered and torn down,
And no one richer by a single bud.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Destroyer

ACROSS the quiet pastures of my soul
The invading army marched in splendid might
My few poor forces fled beyond control,
Scattered, defeated, hidden in the night.

My fields were green, their hedges white with May,
With gold of buttercups made bright and fair,
The careless conquerors did not even stay
To gather one of all the blossoms there.

Only when they had passed, the fields were brown,
The grass and blossoms trampled in the mud:
The flowering hedges withered and torn down,
And no one richer by a single bud.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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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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A New leaf

There’s a new leaf upon the Tree
A thousand, thousand have been before
In the life of this great tree
Yet, the Tree rejoices, and is glad
For there is a New Leaf upon the tree

The roots are deep, and hidden
Tis one tree from root to branch
And lives in and through each leaf
The hearts’ smile resurrected
Through the New leaf upon the tree

Like the stars of heaven
New leaves have been many
And so they all are One
For they all share the same root
Bless the New leaf upon the tree

Perfection in the Blessing
Joy released in tears of love
The strength in life will comfort
From root to God above
A New leaf upon the tree

Beauty, Truth, and life
Complete from root to branch
When life’s cycle turns
Leaves fall to nourish roots
And behold, a New leaf upon the tree

poem by Adrian Wait
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In June In Old Liscreagh

In a lush damp meadow in Liscreagh
In a rushy clump the brown hare lay
From predators well hid away
He doze and sleep for most of the day.

And at twilight he ventures out
For to graze in the pasture fields about
And under the starry cloak of night
He eats his fill in peace and quiet.

It's early Summer in Liscreagh
And badger and her cubs in the twilight gray
Through fields and meadows amble slow
And dig for grubs and earth worms by hedgerow.

And after early morning showers
The old fields in their Summer flowers
In the noon sunshine look fresh and green
And Nature at her best is seen.

And meadows mown for silage and hay
Scent sweetly in June in old Liscreagh
And dark winged swallows in the sky
All day long chirping as they fly.

And butterflies as white as snow
From tree to hedge flit to and fro
And in leafy grove the chaffinch sing
In his own territory he's king.

From Coolikerane bog across the way
The curlew's flute heard in Liscreagh
And robin pipes his lively tune
In Summer's early days in June.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Brueghel's Winter

Jagg'd mountain peaks and skies ice-green
Wall in the wild, cold scene below.
Churches, farms, bare copse, the sea
In freezing quiet of winter show;
Where ink-black shapes on fields in flood
Curling, skating, and sliding go.
To left, a gabled tavern; a blaze;
Peasants; a watching child; and lo,
Muffled, mute--beneath naked trees
In sharp perspective set a-row--
Trudge huntsmen, sinister spears aslant,
Dogs snuffling behind them in the snow;
And arrowlike, lean, athwart the air
Swoops into space a crow.

But flame, nor ice, nor piercing rock,
Nor silence, as of a frozen sea,
Nor that slant inward infinite line
Of signboard, bird, and hill, and tree,
Give more than subtle hint of him
Who squandered here life's mystery.

poem by Walter de la Mare
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A Sixties Childhood

Scrumping apples and kicking footballs
climbing trees and scaling walls
playing marbles in the street
I wonder what became of my mate Pete?
Lots of picnics in the sun
Uncle Stan being so much fun
chasing Butterflies and catching frogs
throwing sticks for our two dogs.
Fishing for Sticklebacks in the stream
licking lollies and eating ice-cream
doing wheelies on my bike
I wonder what became of my pal Mike?
Father playing Cricket on the village green
Mother always washing and keeping the house clean.
the garden colourful with a beautiful scent
and a man in a suit collecting the rent.
Watching T.V. in black and white
all gathered round on a Saturday night
it being so quiet on the day of rest
me and my sister in our Sunday best.
Fell out of the tree hurting my legs
dangerous hobby stealing bird's eggs
Woodpecker, Wren, Starling, and Thrush,
Mother says I'm as daft as a brush.
Now here I sit alone in my chair
with varicose veins and thinning white hair
running and laughing and full of such joy
oh how I wish I was that little boy.

poem by Kevin Halls
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A Child’s Smile

A CHILD'S smile--nothing more;
Quiet, and soft, and grave, and seldom seen;
Like summer lightning o'er,
Leaving the little face again serene.

I think, boy well-beloved,
Thine angel, who did grieve to see how far
Thy childhood is removed
From sports that dear to other children are,

On this pale cheek has thrown
The brightness of his countenance, and made
A beauty like his own--
That, while we see it, we are half afraid,

And marvel, will it stay?
Or, long ere manhood, will that angel fair,
Departing some sad day,
Steal the child-smile and leave the shadow care?

Nay, fear not. As is given
Unto this child the father watching o'er,
His angel up in heaven
Beholds Our Father's face for evermore.

And he will help him bear
His burthen, as his father helps him now:
So may he come to wear
That happy child-smile on an old man's brow.

poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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The Blind Girl

Kind Christians, pray list to me,
And I'll relate a sad story,
Concerning a little blind girl, only nine years of age,
Who lived with her father in a lonely cottage.

Poor girl, she had never seen the blessed light of day,
Nor the beautiful fields of corn and hay,
Nor the sparrows, that lifted their heads at early morn
To bright Sol that does the hills adorn.

And near the cottage door there was an elm tree;
But that stunted elm tree she never did see,
Yet her little heart sometimes felt gay
As she listened to the thrushes that warbled the live-long day.

And she would talk to the wren when alone,
And to the wren she would her loneliness bemoan,
And say, "Dear little wren, come again to-morrow;
Now be sure and come, your singing will chase away my sorrow."

She was motherless, but she had a drunken father,
Who in his savage moods drank all he could gather,
And would often cruelly beat her until she would cry,
"Dear father, if you beat me I will surely die."

She spent the days in getting ready her father's food,
Which was truly for her drunken father's good;
But one night he came home, reeling drunk,
And the poor child's heart with fear sunk;

And he cried, "You were at the door when I came up the lane;
Take that, you good-for-nothing slut; you're to blame
For not having my supper ready; you will find
That's no excuse, Sarah, because you are blind."

And with a stick he struck her as he spoke
Across the shoulders, until the stick almost broke;
Crying aloud, "I'll teach you better, you little sneak;"
And with the beating, Sarah's heart was like to break.

Poor little Sarah had never seen the snow;
She knew it was beautiful white, some children told her so;
And in December, when the snow began to fall,
She would go to the door and make a snowball.

One day she'd been very cheerless and alone,
Poor child, and so cold, almost chilled to the bone;
For her father had spent his wages in drink,
And for want of fire she was almost at death's brink.

Her face was pinched with hunger but she never complained,
And her little feet with cold were chilblained,
And her father that day had not come home for dinner,
And the dull grey sky was all of a shimmer.

So poor Sarah was very sick when her father came home;
So bad, little dear, that she did sigh and moan,
And when her father saw her in bed
He was heart-stricken with fear and dread.

So within a few days poor Sarah did die,
And for the loss of Sarah the drunken father did cry,
So the loss of his child soon converted him
From drinking either whiskey, rum or gin.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Missing You

It's been a while since I saw your smile,
Never seen your face but I felt your grace,
From a distance your gaze,
Your eyes, they warm my heart,
What a great place to start!

In my heart, always,
Always a place for you,
A quiet space,
What a beautiful place!

Lost in time, no rhythm nor rhyme,
Until at last,
We find the peace we deserve,
To live, breathe and to serve,

So when you think of me,
Remember to feel free,
Live life through freedoms door,
Know that I will love you evermore,

I will see you in a quiet room,
A dark corner where you light the gloom,
In a moment of silence, a quiet breath,
Moves us one step further from death,

Sometimes I feel there can be no end,
As long as our hearts mend,
A soul that is your friend,
Then the light of love will know no end.

26 June 2012

poem by David Andre' Klopper
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The Leaf And The Tree

When will you learn, myself, to be
a dying leaf on a living tree?
Budding, swelling, growing strong,
Wearing green, but not for long,
Drawing sustenance from air,
That other leaves, and you not there,
May bud, and at the autumn's call
Wearing russet, ready to fall?
Has not this trunk a deed to do
Unguessed by small and tremulous you?
Shall not these branches in the end
To wisdom and the truth ascend?
And the great lightning plunging by
Look sidewise with a golden eye
To glimpse a tree so tall and proud
It sheds its leaves upon a cloud?

Here, I think, is the heart's grief:
The tree, no mightier than the leaf,
Makes firm its root and spreads it crown
And stands; but in the end comes down.
That airy top no boy could climb

Is trodden in a little time
By cattle on their way to drink.
The fluttering thoughts a leaf can think,
That hears the wind and waits its turn,
Have taught it all a tree can learn.
Time can make soft that iron wood.
The tallest trunk that ever stood,
In time, without a dream to keep,
Crawls in beside the root to sleep.

poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Stranger On A Quiet Street

When all the thrills have been forgotten
The chill of night can call them home
And all the dreams that you left stranded
Will slowly start to come along
I felt it as she slipped away, slipped away
I didnt have the words to say
When I saw the stranger
A stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
You can go straight as an arrow
You can go straight as you dare
Walkin the old straight and narrow
Dont always get you there
The sun was shining when I saw it all
She was moving to a different beat
When I met a stranger
A stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
It came to me out of the blue, out of the blue
There came the moment that I really knew
When I met a stranger
A stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street, on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street

song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fifty Faggots

There they stand, on their ends, the fifty fag gots
That once were underwood of hazel and ash
In Jenny Pink's copse. Now, by the hedge
Close packed, they make a thicket fancy alone
Can creep through with the mouse and wren. Next spring
A blackbird or robin will nest there,
Accustomed to them, thinking they will remain
Whatever is for ever to a bird:
This Spring it is too late; the swift has come.
'Twas a hot day for carrying them up:
Better they will never warm me, though they must
Light several Winters' fires. Before they are done
The war will have ended, many other things
Have ended, maybe, that I can no more
Foresee or more control than robin and wren.

poem by Edward Thomas
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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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A Leaf

I, like a leaf I breath,
I absorber the sun light, into me,
then bring into the tree,
The root is it's heart,
soaking, the water with in,
of the tree where,
the branch I live upon,
the wind wafts as the sun sets,
I will die brown no longer green,
in this leaf is me.

poem by Walter C. Edwards
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A Dedication

Because I went the lone ways
Among the tall trees,
Because I loved the blue days,
The bird melodies,
Deemed you I did our love wrong
In loving these too?
Ah, every forest love song
Was sung, love, for you.
The green slope, the sky above,
The wild forest lore-
All these were but the mind's love:
The deep heart has more.
And were you rival of the wren?
Resentful of the dawn?
Ah, what would these avail, then,
If you, dear, were gone?
The wild joy that things possess
Would seem out of place,
And all beauty meaningless
For want of one face;
The wren's lilt for lack of you
Would wring the heart's core,
And stars upon the night's blue
Would move me no more.

poem by James Martin Devaney
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On the Road to the Sea

We passed each other, turned and stopped for half an hour, then went our way,
I who make other women smile did not make you--
But no man can move mountains in a day.
So this hard thing is yet to do.

But first I want your life:--before I die I want to see
The world that lies behind the strangeness of your eyes,
There is nothing gay or green there for my gathering, it may be,
Yet on brown fields there lies
A haunting purple bloom: is there not something in grey skies
And in grey sea?
I want what world there is behind your eyes,
I want your life and you will not give it me.

Now, if I look, I see you walking down the years,
Young, and through August fields--a face, a thought, a swinging dream
perched on a stile--;
I would have liked (so vile we are!) to have taught you tears
But most to have made you smile.
To-day is not enough or yesterday: God sees it all--
Your length on sunny lawns, the wakeful rainy nights--; tell me--;
(how vain to ask), but it is not a question--just a call--;
Show me then, only your notched inches climbing up the garden wall,
I like you best when you are small.

Is this a stupid thing to say
Not having spent with you one day?
No matter; I shall never touch your hair
Or hear the little tick behind your breast,
Still it is there,
And as a flying bird
Brushes the branches where it may not rest
I have brushed your hand and heard
The child in you: I like that best
So small, so dark, so sweet; and were you also then too grave and wise?
Always I think. Then put your far off little hand in mine;--
Oh! let it rest;
I will not stare into the early world beyond the opening eyes,
Or vex or scare what I love best.
But I want your life before mine bleeds away--
Here--not in heavenly hereafters--soon,--
I want your smile this very afternoon,
(The last of all my vices, pleasant people used to say,
I wanted and I sometimes got--the Moon!)

You know, at dusk, the last bird's cry,
And round the house the flap of the bat's low flight,
Trees that go black against the sky
And then--how soon the night!

No shadow of you on any bright road again,
And at the darkening end of this--what voice? whose kiss? As if you'd say!
It is not I who have walked with you, it will not be I who take away
Peace, peace, my little handful of the gleaner's grain
From your reaped fields at the shut of day.

Peace! Would you not rather die
Reeling,--with all the cannons at your ear?
So, at least, would I,
And I may not be here
To-night, to-morrow morning or next year.
Still I will let you keep your life a little while,
See dear?
I have made you smile.

poem by Charlotte Mary Mew
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The End Of May

'Our governess is not in school,
So we may talk a bit;
Sit down upon this little stool,
Come, little Mary, sit:

'And, my dear playmate, tell me why
In dismal black you're drest?
Why does the tear stand in your eye?
With sobs why heaves your breast?

'When we're in grief, it gives relief
Our sorrows to impart;
When you've told why, my dear, you cry,
'Twill ease your little heart.'

'O, it is trouble very bad
Which causes me to weep;
All last night long we were so sad,
Not one of us could sleep.

'Beyond the seas my father went,
'Twas very long ago;
And he last week a letter sent
(I told you so, you know)

'That he was safe in Portsmouth bay,
And we should see him soon,
Either the latter end of May,
Or by the first of June.

'The end of May was yesterday,
We all expected him;
And in our best clothes we were dressed,
Susan, and I, and Jim.

'O how my poor dear mother smiled,
And clapped her hands for joy;
She said to me, 'Come here, my child,
And Susan, and my boy.

''Come all, and let us think,' said she,
'What we can do to please
Your father, for to-day will he
Come home from off the seas.

''That you have won, my dear young son,
A prize at school, we'll tell,
Because you can, my little man,
In writing all excel:

''And you have made a poem, nearly
All of your own invention:
Will not your father love you dearly
When this to him I mention?

''Your sister Mary, she can say
Your poetry by heart;
And to repeat your verses may
Be little Mary's part.

''Susan, for you, I'll say you do
Your needlework with care,
And stitch so true the wristbands new
Dear father's soon to wear!'

''O hark!' said James; 'I hear one speak;
'Tis like a seaman's voice.'-
Our mother gave a joyful shriek;
How did we all rejoice!

''My husband's come!' 'My father's here!'
But O, alas, it was not so;
It was not as we said:
A stranger seaman did appear,
On his rough cheek there stood a tear,
For he brought to us a tale of woe,-
Our father dear was dead.'

poem by Charles Lamb
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The Indifference Of Nature

poverty and hate
live in the
little village where
old coconut trees
fence out the
deep blue
sea

this place is ravaged by
a tribal war
each kin killing another kin
without mercy

just last week
a father with his three sons
were beheaded
the wife ran away
mad

the house is empty
abandoned

a lonely man lives alone
in the nearby little hut
under the cover of a dark night
filled with stars

he plays his old guitar
strumming his sadness
telling the stars
about this wasteland
this horrible
place of killing fields

of vengeful men
against their
fellow men

this green place
could have been
a paradise in
peace

the stars glitter in
innocence
as the song floats in air
and just like the sands of this
bloody shore

seem to feel nothing
at all

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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