The Convent Garden
The Convent garden lies so near
The road the people go,
If it was quiet you might hear
The nuns' talk, merry and low.
Black London trees have made their screen
From folk who pry and peer,
The sooty sparrows now begin
Their talk of country cheer.
And round and round by twos and threes
The nuns walk, praying still
For fighting men across the seas
Who die to save them ill.
From the dear prison of her choice
The young nun's thoughts are far;
She muses on the golden boys
At all the Fronts of War.
Now from her narrow Convent house
She sees where great ships be,
And plucks the robe of God, her Spouse,
To give the victory.
Under her robe her heart's a-beat,
Her maiden pulses stir,
At sound of marching in the street,
To think they die for her!
And now beneath the veil and hood
Her hidden eyes will glow,
The battle ardour's in her blood --
If she might strike one blow!
And when she sleeps at last perchance
Her soul hath slipped away
To fields of Serbia and of France
Until the dawn of day.
She wanders by the still moonbeam
By dying and by dead,
And many a broken man will dream
An angel lifts his head.
All day and night as a sweet smoke
Her prayer ascends the skies
That all her piteous fighting folk
May walk in Paradise.
And still her innocent pulses stir,
Her heart is proud and high,
To think that men should die for her --
And the marching feet go by.
poem by Katharine Tynan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Street Fighting Man
(mick jagger / keith richards)
Everywhere I hear the sound
Of marching, charging feet boy
cause the summers here
And the time is right for
Fighting in the street boy
Hey think the time is right
For a palace revolution
Where I live the game to play
Is just to compromise my solution
What can a poor boy do
Except to sing for a rock n roll band
cause you see bein london town
Theres just no other place
For a street fighting man
Hey did I tell you that my name
Was called disturbance
And Ill shout and scream
And Ill kill the king and
Ill rail at all his servants
What can a poor boy do
Except to sing for a rock n roll band
cause you see bein london town
Theres just no place
For a street fighting man
Everywhere I hear the sound
Of marching, charging feet boy
cause the summers here
And the time is right for
Fighting in the street boy
What can a poor boy do
Except to sing for a rock n roll band
cause you see bein london town
Theres just no other place
For a street fighting man
song performed by by Rod Stewart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Under the Violets
HER hands are cold; her face is white;
No more her pulses come and go;
Her eyes are shut to life and light;--
Fold the white vesture, snow on snow,
And lay her where the violets blow.
But not beneath a graven stone,
To plead for tears with alien eyes;
A slender cross of wood alone
Shall say, that here a maiden lies
In peace beneath the peaceful skies.
And gray old trees of hugest limb
Shall wheel their circling shadows round
To make the scorching sunlight dim
That drinks the greenness from the ground,
And drop their dead leaves on her mound.
When o'er their boughs the squirrels run,
And through their leaves the robins call,
And, ripening in the autumn sun,
The acorns and the chestnuts fall,
Doubt not that she will heed them all.
For her the morning choir shall sing
Its matins from the branches high,
And every minstrel-voice of Spring,
That trills beneath the April sky,
Shall greet her with its earliest cry.
When, turning round their dial-track,
Eastward the lengthening shadows pass,
Her little mourners, clad in black,
The crickets, sliding through the grass,
Shall pipe for her an evening mass.
At last the rootlets of the trees
Shall find the prison where she lies,
And bear the buried dust they seize
In leaves and blossoms to the skies.
So may the soul that warmed it rise!
If any, born of kindlier blood,
Should ask, What maiden lies below?
Say only this: A tender bud,
That tried to blossom in the snow,
Lies withered where the violets blow.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Barrel-Organ
There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street
In the City as the sun sinks low;
And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet
And fulfilled it with the sunset glow;
And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain
That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light;
And they've given it a glory and a part to play again
In the Symphony that rules the day and night.
And now it's marching onward through the realms of old romance,
And trolling out a fond familiar tune,
And now it's roaring cannon down to fight the King of France,
And now it's prattling softly to the moon.
And all around the organ there's a sea without a shore
Of human joys and wonders and regrets;
To remember and to recompense the music evermore
For what the cold machinery forgets...
Yes; as the music changes,
Like a prismatic glass,
It takes the light and ranges
Through all the moods that pass;
Dissects the common carnival
Of passions and regrets,
And gives the world a glimpse of all
The colours it forgets.
And there La Traviata sighs
Another sadder song;
And there Il Trovatore cries
A tale of deeper wrong;
And bolder knights to battle go
With sword and shield and lance,
Than ever here on earth below
Have whirled into--a dance!--
Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;
Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)
And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland;
Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)
The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume,
The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!)
And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's a blaze of sky
The cuckoo, though he's very shy, will sing a song for London.
The nightingale is rather rare and yet they say you'll hear him there
At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!)
The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo
And golden-eyed tu-whit, tu-whoo of owls that ogle London.
For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn't heard
At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!)
And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are out
You'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorusing for London:--
Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;
Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)
And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland;
Come down to Kew in lilac-time (is isn't far from London!)
And then the troubadour begins to thrill the golden street,
In the city as the sun sinks low;
And in all the gaudy busses there are scores of weary feet
Marking time, sweet time, with a dull mechanic beat,
And a thousand hearts are plunging to a love they'll never meet,
Through the meadows of the sunset, through the poppies and the wheat,
In the land where the dead dreams go.
Verdi, Verdi, when you wrote Il Trovatore did you dream
Of the City when the sun sinks low,
Of the organ and the monkey and the many-coloured stream
On the Piccadilly pavement, of the myriad eyes that seem
To be litten for a moment with a wild Italian gleam
As A che la morte parodies the world's eternal theme
And pulses with the sunset-glow?
There's a thief, perhaps, that listens with a face of frozen stone
In the City as the sun sinks low;
There's a portly man of business with a balance of his own,
There's a clerk and there's a butcher of a soft reposeful tone,
And they're all of them returning to the heavens they have known:
They are crammed and jammed in busses and--they're each of them alone
In the land where the dead dreams go.
There's a labourer that listens to the voices of the dead
In the City as the sun sinks low;
And his hand begins to tremble and his face is rather red
As he sees a loafer watching him and--there he turns his head
And stares into the sunset where his April love is fled,
For he hears her softly singing and his lonely soul is led
Through the land where the dead dreams go...
There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street
In the City as the sun sinks low;
Though the music's only Verdi there's a world to make it sweet
Just as yonder yellow sunset where the earth and heaven meet
Mellows all the sooty City! Hark, a hundred thousand feet
Are marching on to glory through the poppies and the wheat
In the land where the dead dreams go.
So it's Jeremiah, Jeremiah,
What have you to say
When you meet the garland girls
Tripping on their way?
All around my gala hat
I wear a wreath of roses
(A long and lonely year it is
I've waited for the May!)
If any one should ask you,
The reason why I wear it is--
My own love, my true love is coming home to-day.
And it's buy a bunch of violets for the lady
(It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!)
Buy a bunch of violets for the lady;
While the sky burns blue above:
On the other side the street you'll find it shady
(It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!)
But buy a bunch of violets for the lady,
And tell her she's your own true love.
There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street
In the City as the sun sinks glittering and slow;
And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet
And enriched it with the harmonies that make a song complete
In the deeper heavens of music where the night and morning meet,
As it dies into the sunset glow;
And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain
That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light,
And they've given it a glory and a part to play again
In the Symphony that rules the day and night.
And there, as the music changes,
The song runs round again;
Once more it turns and ranges
Through all its joy and pain:
Dissects the common carnival
Of passions and regrets;
And the wheeling world remembers all
The wheeling song forgets.
Once more La Traviata sighs
Another sadder song:
Once more Il Trovatore cries
A tale of deeper wrong;
Once more the knights to battle go
With sword and shield and lance
Till once, once more, the shattered foe
Has whirled into--a dance!
Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;
Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)
And you shall wander hand in hand with Love in summer's wonderland,
Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)
poem by Alfred Noyes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Street Fighting Man
Everywhere I hear the sound of marching, charging feet, boy
cause summers here and the time is right for fighting in the street, boy
Tell me what can a poor boy do
cept for sing for a rock n roll band
cause in this sleepy l.a. town
Theres just no place for a street fighting man
A street fighting man
A street fighting man
A street fighting man
Do you think the time is right for a palace revolution
Where I live the game to play is compromise solution
Well then what can a poor boy
cept for sing for a rock n roll band
cause in this sleepy l.a. town
Theres just no place for a street fighting man
A street fighting man
A street fighting man
A street fighting man
Well what else can a poor boy do?
Well what else can a poor boy do?
Well what else can a poor boy do?
Well what else can a poor boy do?
Hey my name is called disturbance
Ill shout and scream, Ill kill the king, Ill rail at all his servants
Well what can a poor boy do
For sing for a rock n roll band
In this sleepy l.a. town
Theres just no place for
For a street fighting man
A street fighting man
For a street fighting man
A street fighting man
For a street fighting man
A street fighting man
For a street fighting man
A street fighting man
For a street fighting man
A street fighting man
A street fighting man
A street fighting man
A street fighting man
A street fighting man
A street fighting man
A street fighting man
A street fighting man
song performed by by Rage Against The Machine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Soul's Quest
PART I
IN the land that is neither night nor day,
Where the mists sleep over the forests grey,
A sad, sad spirit wandered away.
The woods are still—no brooks, no wind,
No fair green meadows can she find;
5
But a low red light in the sky behind.
Far over the plain, to the spirit's sight,
The city's towers are black as night,
Against the edge of the low red light.
This side the city in darkness lies,
10
But westward, at the glowering skies,
It glares with a thousand fiery eyes.
The road is long, the hedgerows bare,
There's the chill of death in the silent air,
And a glimmer of darkness everywhere.
15
'O sad, sad spirit, what thy quest,
With those flowing locks and that shadowy vest? '
The spirit answers, 'I seek for rest.'
'Where seekest rest, when the air is cold
On the long, dim road, and the clock hath tolled
20
The muffled hours form the belfry old?
'Where seekest rest through the twilight grey
Of the mists that sleep on the woods alway? '—
'I seek to-morrow or yesterday! '
Her face is pale, her feet are bare,
25
Her sad dark eyes, wide open, stare
At the glimmering darkness everywhere.
To those cheeks no rose hath summer brought,
But on their pallor time hath wrought
The troubled lines of an after-thought.
30
Her arms are crossed upon her breast,
Her round limbs shape the shadowy vest,
And thus, all silent, seeks she rest.
Her tread is light on the cold, hard road;
For the tread may be light, yet heavy the load
35
Of grief at the heart and thoughts that goad.
She plucks a leaf from the roadway side,
And under its shade two violets hide—
As if from her cold touch, they hide.
She twines the violets in her hair;
40
They have no scent—she does not care,
For the glimmer of darkness is everywhere.
And on through the dim of the twilight grey,
While the pale sky gloweth far away,
She seeks to-morrow or yesterday.
45
PART II
'O Abbess, Abbess, the air is chill!
I heard the chaunting over the hill,
Like an angel's voice when the soul is still.
'O, Abbess, open wide thy gate!
Out on the cold, dim road I wait,
50
A spirit lone and desolate.
'Take thou these hands and these weary feet,
Cold as a corpse in its winding-sheet,
For the song of the nuns was so strange and sweet.
'Here with the sisters let me dwell,
55
Under these walls, in the loneliest cell,
Waiting the sound of the matin bell.
'Cut off these locks of flowing hair,
Cover with weeds this bosom bare,
For the glimmer of darkness is everywhere.
60
'Ask not my name, nor whence my way,
For the mist sleeps over the wood alway,
And I seek to-morrow or yesterday.'
She's passed beneath the chapel door;
The nuns are kneeling on the floor,
65
But a low wind moaneth evermore.
Sweeter and sweeter the sisters sing,
Till high in the roof the echoes ring,
For they know that God is listening.
'Ave Maria, hear our cry,
70
As the shadows roll across the sky,
For those that live and those that die!
'Ave Maria, Virgin blest,
Help the sin-stained and distrest,
Give the weary-hearted rest!
75
'Ave Maria, who didst bear
Jesus in this world of care,
Grant us all thy bliss to share! '
Sweeter and sweeter the sisters sing,
From arch to arch the echoes ring,
80
For they know that God is listening.
Out of the north the oceans roll,
Washing the lands from pole to pole:
No rest—no rest for the old world's soul.
The after-glow of suns that set
85
O'er fields with morning dew once wet,
Where all life's flowering roadways met,
Long shadows of our joys has sent,
Sloping adown the way we went
Towards darkness where our feet are bent.
90
Is it the moan of the evening wind?
Or the voice of the ocean in the mind,
While the pale red light looms up behind?
Is it moan of wind, or convent bell,
Or cry of the ocean? I cannot tell;
95
But a voice in her heart has locked the spell.
She does not hear the organ's swell;
In vain she strives her beads to tell,
For a voice in her heart has locked the spell.
She broods among the tangled fears,
100
The undergrowth of perished years,
That darken round the lake of tears.
Silent and dank, they fringe the brim
Of waters motionless and dim,
Unmoved by wings of Seraphim.
105
No lights on the altar the spirit sees,
The cloistered aisles are but leafless trees,
And the music, the sigh of the evening breeze.
No matin or vesper bell for her;
The leafless branches never stir
110
In the pale, pale light of the days that were.
No matin or vesper hymn or prayer
Can shut those eyes' wide-open stare
At the glimmering darkness everywhere.
The sweetest singing dies away;
115
No note of birds for those who stray
In the land that is neither night nor day.
PART III
In the shadowy light of the silent land,
With the tall gaunt hedges on either hand,
On the long, dim road doth the spirit stand.
120
Under the hedges the air is chill,
And the mists sleep over the forest still,
And are folded like wings on the sides of the hill.
Her arms are crossed upon her breast,
Her round limbs shape the shadowy vest,
125
Her feet are worn with seeking rest.
To her cheeks no rose hath summer brought,
While on their pallor time hath wrought
The troubled lines of an after-thought.
But sweet is the gaze of those sad dark eyes,
130
And sweet their look of mute surprise,
As something in the road she spies.
Spurned under foot, o'ergrown with moss,
Counted of foolish men but loss,
On the cold, hard road lies Jesus' cross.
135
In the dim twilight as she stood,
She saw the marks of Jesus' Blood,
Then stooped and kissed the Holy Rood.
There are sounds of joy from the years gone by,
There's a pale red light in the forward sky,
140
And a star looks down through the mist on high.
Hush! for the light falls clear from that star,
Hush! for the day-dawn kindles afar,
Hush! for the gate of the sky is ajar.
What is the voice of the boundless sea
145
As it clasps the lands excitedly?
Not the voice of the dead, but of what shall be—
Of what shall be when the world shall cease,
And oceans die in the reign of peace,
When God grants pardon and release.
150
O sweetest taste of Jesus' Blood!
Joy bursts upon her like a flood;
The spirit kisseth Holy Rood.
A low wind moaneth evermore,
The nuns still kneel upon the floor,
155
But Jesus trod this way before.
She lifts the sacred emblem up:
This was His drink, His bitter cup;
And all His loved with Him must sup.
Beneath its arms she bows her head,
160
Those arms so rudely fashionèd,
Which Jesus made His dying bed.
She bends beneath the cross's weight,
But now no longer desolate,
She stands before the convent gate.
165
Sweeter and sweeter the sisters sing,
From arch and roof the echoes ring,
While God above is listening.
'Ave Maria, Virgin blest,
Help the sin-stained and distrust,
170
Grant the weary-hearted rest! '
The altar-lights are shining fair,
And Jesus' cross is standing there;
The darkness brightens everywhere.
In silent bliss the spirit kneels,
175
For mortal utterance half conceals
The deepest joy the bosom feels.
She bears her burden day by day;
It wakens her at morning grey,
And calms her at eve's setting ray.
180
She bears it through the length of years;
The rough wood drives away her fears,
The blood-stains check all earthly tears.
Through daily round of deed and psalm,
She moves in silent strength and calm,
185
The cross her solace and her balm.
She bears it round from door to door,
And lonely hearts that ached before,
Find joy and peace for evermore.
So in the present, people say,
190
Of holy deed and prayer alway,
She finds to-morrow and yesterday.
poem by Frederick George Scott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
London Girl
The devil moon took me through the alley
Down by the kardomah and the centrale
To the mews running through the backstreets
Where the blacks sold fire and sleep
The devil moon took me out of soho
Up to camden where the cold north winds blow
Sucked along by a winter shower
To stand beside your shining tower
This could be our final dance
This could be our very last chance
Just the sound of your voice
Wherever I may be changes everything
And then the worlds right with me
Youre my london girl
The way that you walk
Youre my london girl
The way that you talk
Just the sound of your voice
And I aint got no choice
The light was goinbg out, the moon was dying
The night was turning to a fine spring morning
The dogs were barking and the kids were shouting
The sun was splashing in a crystal fountain
When the cold winds come to find you
Blowing down from the top of the high rise
Ill come and take you back down to soho
Away from all those mad mens eyes
This could be our final dance
This could be our very last chance
And if you cut me
Dont you think I feel
Is this body made of clay
Is this heart made of steel
Youre my london girl
The way that you walk
Youre my london girl
The way that you talk
Just the sound of your voice
I aint got no choice
This could be our final dance
This could be our very last chance
And if you cut me
Dont you think I feel
Is this body made of clay
Is this heart made of steel
Youre my london girl
The way that you walk
Youre my london girl
The way that you talk
Just the sound of your voice
I aint got no choice
song performed by by Pogues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Lamia in Blackburn Wood
[In the form of traditional folk ballad.]
I
In Blackburn Wood a maid betrothed
that rode a garlanded mare
by cutthroat maimed for maidenhood
writhed in crimson there.
Dislimbed beneath a shrieking sun
and left for carrion-kite,
the savaged maid survived their beaks,
and slithered into night.
II
By summer's end, to Blackburn Wood
a sheath of night returned;
beneath its hood and tapered robe
maiden vengeance burned.
'Disrobe and yield or fall in blood,
this blade rejects all pleas:
I leave a maid a looping asp
that will not lift her knees.'
'I'll shed my robe and hood that am
no maid to fear such thing;
to chill your blazing blood I bear
a maiden's righteous sting.'
III
A lethal hiss cut short his grunts,
bestial snarl hardened to stone,
as ramping venom drained him faint
and pale as weathered bone.
Up from a clump of blasted weeds
there rose in mid-day light
from cutthroat's ribs and skull, pecked clean,
a flock of swollen kite.
A field away a sheath of scales,
resembling robe and hood,
curled round a broken garland
redeemed in Blackburn Wood.
*(Lamia in Greek myth is a serpent with the head
and breasts of a woman.)
poem by William F Dougherty
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Drums of Battersea
They can’t hear in West o’ London, where the worst dine with the best—
Deaf to all save lies and laughter, they can’t hear in London West—
Tailored brutes and splendid harlots, and the parasites that be—
They can’t hear the warning thunder of the Drums of Battersea.
More drums! War drums!
Drums of Misery—
Beating from the hearts of men—the Drums of Battersea.
Where the hearses hurry ever, and where man lives like a beast,
They can feel the war-drums beating—men of Hell! and London East.
And the far-off foreign farmers, fighting fiercely to be free,
Found new courage in the echo of the Drums of Battersea.
More drums! War drums!
Beating for the free—
Beating on the hearts of men—the Drums of Battersea.
And the drummers! Ah! the drummers!—stern and haggard men are those
Standing grimly at their meetings; and their washed and mended clothes
Speak of worn-out wives behind them and of grinding poverty—
But the English of the English beat the Drums of Battersea!
More drums! War drums!
Drums of agony—
The big bruised heart of England’s in the Drums of Battersea.
Where in fields slave Englishwomen, Oh! the sound of drums is there:
I have heard it in the laughter of the nights of Leicester Square—
Sailing southward with the summer, London but a dream to me,
Still I feel the distant thunder of the Drums of Battersea!
More drums! War drums!
Drums of Liberty—
Rolling round the English world—the Drums of Battersea.
Oh! I heard them in the Queen’s Hall—aye! and London heard that night—
While we formed up round the leaders while they struck one blow for right!
And the old strength, that old fire, that I thought was dead in me,
Blazed up fiercely at the beating of the Drums of Battersea!
More drums! War drums!
They beat for victory—
When above the roar of Jingoes rolled the Drums of Battersea.
And where’er my feet may wander, and howe’er I lay my head,
I shall hear them while I’m dreaming—I shall hear them when I’m dead!
For they beat for men and women, beat for Christ, and you and me:
There is hope and there is terror in the Drums of Battersea!
More drums! War drums!
Drums of destiny—
There’s hope!—there’s hope for England in the Drums of Battersea.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Touching Ceremony
On a golden autumn morning,
Just fifty years ago,
When harvests ripe lay smiling
In the sunshine’s yellow glow,
A pious group was standing
Round the lighted altar’s flame
In the humble convent chapel
Of the Nuns of Notre Dame.
A girl of fifteen summers,
With gentle, serious air,
In novice garb of purple,
Was humbly kneeling there;
Uttering the vows so binding
Whose magic power sufficed
To make that child-like maiden
The well-loved Bride of Christ.
No troubled, anxious shadow
O’er-clouded that young brow,
As with look and voice unfaltering
She breathed her solemn vow:
No regretful glances cast she
On the pomps that she had spurned,
Nor the dream of love and pleasure
From which she had coldly turned.
* * * * *
Fifty years of joy and sorrow
Since that day have o’er her flown—
Years of words and deeds of mercy,
Living but for God alone—
And again a group is standing,
By this holy scene enticed,
To renew the golden bridal
Of this faithful spouse of Christ.
True, her brow has lost the smoothness
And her cheek the fresh young glow
That adorned them on that autumn
Morning—fifty years ago;
But, oh! think not that her Bridegroom
Loves her anything the less;
He sees but the inward beauty
And the spirit’s loveliness.
Cloister honors long have fallen
Ceaseless, constant, to her lot,
But, like cloister honors falling,
Unto one who sought them not;
Daughter meek of the great Foundress
Of thy honored house and name,
Worthy art thou to be Abbess
Of the nuns of Notre Dame!
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Dead Folk Don't Talk
On the day she died they all came,
though I was shocked they recalled her name
but they drank our booze and ate our cake
yeah they ate our cake alright.
Maybe they meant well
maybe not
but you can't keep dead folk company
for dead folk, they don't talk.
Nobody came and nobody called
when she was ill and dying.
Nobody seemed to care at all
and now they're all here crying.
Maybe they meant well
maybe not
but you can't keep dead folk company
for dead folk, they don't talk.
So I sat there dazed and out of control
listening to them talking,
but when she were alive, the house was still,
just me and mother sighing.
Maybe they meant well
maybe not
but you can't keep dead folk company
for dead folk, they don't talk.
And afterwards, when they all went
I carried out her last requests.
I moved her gas fire, paid the rent
and left a note to the dairyman.
Nobody came and nobody called
when she was ill and dying.
Nobody seemed to care at all
and if they say they did, they're lying.
poem by Ruth Walters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Gates of Innocence
Up round St John Street we walked one night, while moonlight brightly glowed,
My arm around you, yours round me, with two friends long ago.
So deep into love’s old sweet dream in moments now long flown,
And like a leaf upon the breeze my heart was not my own.
Oh the road to winning you was fraught, with quicksands all the way.
I sank and swam, I walked and ran, I wooed you night and day,
To simply hold your hand so soft, or gaze on eyes so blue,
In steep green fields at Clachanmore when I worked next to you.
But no moon nor love could quite foresee that I would wriggle free,
Against my heart, against my will, somewhat regretfully.
The roads we walked were soon to part, to sever us for ill,
To leave the Crescent we once walked, to ghosts that haunt me still.
Now the thoughts that circle round me here, they strengthen with the night.
As if the years have fallen to that young love’s breathless might,
Your eyes beguiled the doubting stars and left me void of sense,
Before the moments we fell through, the gates of innocence.
Now the moonlight shines less brightly on the lonely fields we cleared,
And St John Street is not as sweet as when I held you dear.
The friends we walked with on that night still walk together yet.
The full moon’s promise holds as true, as when we two last met.
chorus
The winds blow cold on those steep green fields
And strangers walk down St John Street
I’ve walked the crescent where love grew
Where innocence once sheltered me and you
Just One Victory
We've been waiting so long,
We've been waiting for the sun to rise and shine
Shining still to give us the will
Can you hear me, the sound of my voice?
I am here to tell you i have made my choice
I've been listening to what's been going down
There's just too much talk and gossip going 'round
You may think that i'm a fool, but i know the answer
Words become a tool, anyone can use them
Take the golden rule, as the best example
Eyes that have seen will know what i mean
The time has come to take the bull by the horns
We've been so downhearted, we've been so forlorn
We get weak and we want to give in
But we still need each other if we want to win
Hold that line, baby hold that line
Get up boys and hit 'em one more time
We may be losing now but we can't stop trying
So hold that line, baby hold that line
If you don't know what to do about a world of trouble
You can pull it through if you need to and if
You believe it's true, it will surely happen
Shining still, to give us the will
Bright as the day, to show us the way
Somehow, someday,
We need just one victory and we're on our way
Prayin' for it all day and fightin' for it all night
Give us just one victory, it will be all right
We may feel about to fall but we go down fighting
You will hear the call if you only listen
Underneath it all we are here together shining still
song performed by by Utopia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Silver Box
Old tales of valour fire our blood
But this, the bravest deed I know
Is written of our modern times,
No myth of long ago.
It was a convent grim and grey,
Whose vine-clad balconies looked down
On stately old Colonial homes
Of a fair Southern town.
And daughters of those grand old homes
Dwelt, humble Nuns, within its shade,
Serving their Lord with zealous hearts,
Joyous and unafraid.
From the dear Rectress, staid and old
To the small novice whose sweet eyes
Held the soft blue of Mary’s cloak
Or flowers of Paradise.
Peaceful and holy ran their lives
Hallowed by sacrifice and prayer,
Until one summer day did come
A fateful message there.
A letter from a brave young Priest,
The Rectress’ nephew, who, long while
Had toiled alone ‘mid leper folk
In a West Indian Isle.
The horrors of that festering hell
He told Ah! There were women there
Deep sunk in suffering and in sin
Who needed women’s care.
The good Nun read with blanching face,
And well her wisdom could divine
The cry for help he dared not ask
The breathed in every line.
She could not bid her daughters loved
Such awful sacrifice to make;
But should one feel impelled to give
Her life, for Jesus sake,
“I’ll place.” She said. “this silver box,
Before the chapel alter where
Such one may place her name therein
In quiet and secret there.”
The convent was a silent place
For all that long, long summer day,
Though in the garden old, the bees
Hummed round nasturtiums gay.
But tasks were done and prayers were said
In thoughtful silence, faithfully
The merry little novice e’en,
Went slowly and solemnly.
A thing of fate, the little box
Lay bright upon the alter stair,
The silver lamp before Our Lord
Shone on it sparkling there.
Next morn they waited after Mass
To hear the chaplain grave proclaim
On opening the casket there
If it held any name.
And in the rear a little group
Off anxious fathers, mothers pale,
Who knew the story of the box
Waited to hear the tale.
Oh! Wondrous faith of Peter’s fold
That can such fruitage bear-
The little box was very full
No name was missing there.
From the dear Rectress staid and old
To the small novice, who bright eyes
Mirrored the blue of Mary’s cloak
Of flowers of Paradise.
poem by Alice Guerin Crist
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
With Trumpet and Drum
With big tin trumpet and little red drum,
Marching like soldiers, the children come!
It 's this way and that way they circle and file---
My! but that music of theirs is fine!
This way and that way, and after a while
They march straight into this heart of mine!
A sturdy old heart, but it has to succumb
To the blare of that trumpet and beat of that drum!
Come on, little people, from cot and from hall---
This heart it hath welcome and room for you all!
It will sing you its songs and warm you with love,
As your dear little arms with my arms intertwine;
It will rock you away to the dreamland above---
Oh, a jolly old heart is this old heart of mine,
And jollier still is it bound to become
When you blow that big trumpet and beat that red drum!
So come; though I see not his dear little face
And hear not his voice in this jubilant place,
I know he were happy to bid me enshrine
His memory deep in my heart with your play---
Ah me! but a love that is sweeter than mine
Holdeth my boy in its keeping to-day!
And my heart it is lonely---so, little folk, come,
March in and make merry with trumpet and drum!
poem by Eugene Field
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Just One Victory
Weve been waiting so long,
Weve been waiting for the sun to rise and shine
Shining still to give us the will
Can you hear me, the sound of my voice?
I am here to tell you I have made my choice
Ive been listening to whats been going down
Theres just too much talk and gossip going round
You may think that Im a fool, but I know the answer
Words become a tool, anyone can use them
Take the golden rule, as the best example
Eyes that have seen will know what I mean
The time has come to take the bull by the horns
Weve been so downhearted, weve been so forlorn
We get weak and we want to give in
But we still need each other if we want to win
Hold that line, baby hold that line
Get up boys and hit em one more time
We may be losing now but we cant stop trying
So hold that line, baby hold that line
If you dont know what to do about a world of trouble
You can pull it through if you need to and if
You believe its true, it will surely happen
Shining still, to give us the will
Bright as the day, to show us the way
Somehow, someday,
We need just one victory and were on our way
Prayin for it all day and fightin for it all night
Give us just one victory, it will be all right
We may feel about to fall but we go down fighting
You will hear the call if you only listen
Underneath it all we are here together shining still
song performed by by Todd Rundgren
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Her Face.
There is a something in her face
Which in no other I can trace,
And feelings sweet as music stir
When I gaze in her dreamy eyes,
And breathe a perfume, as it were,
From flowers in Paradise.
At morn, at noon and night it seems
As if I moved by faery streams,
A strange light on the leaves and grass;
As if her life-breath were the air
Through which the magic moments pass
In her dream-beauty there.
It is thought's paradise which she
Inhabits like a mystery,
Through which my feelings come and go
Like tunes which to her pulses stir;
And my life day by day, I trow,
Is one sweet dream of her.
poem by Robert Crawford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
World's Desire
Love, there is a castle built in a country desolate,
On a rock above a forest where the trees are grim and great,
Blasted with the lightning sharp-giant boulders strewn between,
And the mountains rise above, and the cold ravine
Echoes to the crushing roar and thunder of a mighty river
Raging down a cataract. Very tower and forest quiver
And the grey wolves are afraid and the call of birds is drowned,
And the thought and speech of man in the boiling water's sound.
But upon the further side of the barren, sharp ravine
With the sunlight on its turrets is the castle seen,
Calm and very wonderful, white above the green
Of the wet and waving forest, slanted all away,
Because the driving Northern wind will not rest by night or day.
Yet the towers are sure above, very mighty is the stead,
The gates are made of ivory, the roofs of copper red.
Round and round the warders grave walk upon the walls for ever
And the wakeful dragons couch in the ports of ivory,
Nothing is can trouble it, hate of the gods nor man's endeavour,
And it shall be a resting-place, dear heart, for you and me.
Through the wet and waving forest with an age-old sorrow laden
Singing of the world's regret wanders wild the faerie maiden,
Through the thistle and the brier, through the tangles of the thorn,
Till her eyes be dim with weeping and her homeless feet are torn.
Often to the castle gate up she looks with vain endeavour,
For her soulless loveliness to the castle winneth never.
But within the sacred court, hidden high upon the mountain,
Wandering in the castle gardens lovely folk enough there be,
Breathing in another air, drinking of a purer fountain
And among that folk, beloved, there's a place for you and me
poem by Clive Staples Lewis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Departure
It's little I care what path I take,
And where it leads it's little I care;
But out of this house, lest my heart break,
I must go, and off somewhere.
It's little I know what's in my heart,
What's in my mind it's little I know,
But there's that in me must up and start,
And it's little I care where my feet go.
I wish I could walk for a day and a night,
And find me at dawn in a desolate place
With never the rut of a road in sight,
Nor the roof of a house, nor the eyes of a face.
I wish I could walk till my blood should spout,
And drop me, never to stir again,
On a shore that is wide, for the tide is out,
And the weedy rocks are bare to the rain.
But dump or dock, where the path I take
Brings up, it's little enough I care:
And it's little I'd mind the fuss they'll make,
Huddled dead in a ditch somewhere.
'Is something the matter, dear,' she said,
'That you sit at your work so silently?'
'No, mother, no, 'twas a knot in my thread.
There goes the kettle, I'll make the tea.'
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Forest Road
The forest road,
The infinite straight road stretching away
World without end: the breathless road between the walls
Of the black listening trees: the hushed, grey road
Beyond the window that you shut to-night
Crying that you would look at it by day -
There is a shadow there that sings and calls
But not for you. Oh! hidden eyes that plead in sleep
Against the lonely dark, if I could touch the fear
And leave it kissed away on quiet lids -
If I could hush these hands that are half-awake,
Groping for me in sleep I could go free.
I wish that God would take them out of mine
And fold them like the wings of frightened birds
Shot cruelly down, but fluttering into quietness so soon.
Broken, forgotten things? there is no grief for them in the green Spring
When the new birds fly back to the old trees.
But it shall not be so with you. I will look back. I wish I knew that God would stand
Smiling and looking down on you when morning comes,
To hold you, when you wake, closer than I,
So gently though: and not with famished lips or hungry arms:
He does not hurt the frailest, dearest things
As we do in the dark. See, dear, your hair -
I must unloose this hair that sleeps and dreams
About my face, and clings like the brown weed
To drowned, delivered things, tossed by the tired sea
Back to the beaches. Oh! your hair! If you had lain
A long time dead on the rough, glistening ledge
Of some black cliff, forgotten by the tide,
The raving winds would tear, the dripping brine would rust away
Fold after fold of all the loveliness
That wraps you round, and makes you, lying here,
The passionate fragrance that the roses are.
But death would spare the glory of your head
In the long sweetness of the hair that does not die:
The spray would leap to it in every storm,
The scent of the unsilenced sea would linger on
In these dark waves, and round the silence that was you -
Only the nesting gulls would hear - but there would still be whispers in your hair;
Keep them for me; keep them for me. What is this singing on the road
That makes all other music like the music in a dream -
Dumb to the dancing and the marching feet; you know, in dreams, you see
Old pipers playing that you cannot hear,
And ghostly drums that only seem to beat. This seems to climb:
Is it the music of a larger place? It makes our room too small: it is like a stair,
A calling stair that climbs up to a smile you scarcely see,
Dim, but so waited for; and you know what a smile is, how it calls,
How if I smiled you always ran to me.
Now you must sleep forgetfully, as children do.
There is a Spirit sits by us in sleep
Nearer than those who walk with us in the bright day.
I think he has a tranquil, saving face: I think he came
Straight from the hills: he may have suffered there in time gone by,
And once, from those forsaken heights, looked down,
Lonely himself, on all the lonely sorrows of the earth.
It is his kingdom - Sleep. If I could leave you there -
If, without waking you, I could get up and reach the door -!
We used to go together. - Shut, scared eyes,
Poor, desolate, desperate hands, it is not I
Who thrust you off. No, take your hands away -
I cannot strike your lonely hands. Yes, I have struck your heart,
It did not come so near. Then lie you there
Dear and wild heart behind this quivering snow
With two red stains on it: and I will strike and tear
Mine out, and scatter it to yours. Oh! throbbing dust,
You that were life, our little wind-blown hearts!
The road! the road!
There is a shadow there: I see my soul,
I hear my soul, singing among the trees!
poem by Charlotte Mary Mew
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Frankie
Dark weekends in the sun, out on chelsea row
Descending the stairs, frankie my love
Check your make-up in the mirror
Come on, baby, lets go
Well dance round this dirty town
till the night is all done
Then all the finer things sleep alone tonight
Then all the minor kings lose their thrones tonight
Dont worry about me baby, Ill be alright
Theres machines and theres fire
On the outside of town
Young boys for hire
Waiting to blow us all down
There are strange flashes in the sky up above
Ill spend the night at the movies
With my secret love
At dusk the stars all appear on the screen
Just like they do each night in my dreams
But tonights no dream, frankie
I can feel myself move
Living and dying
Like I was born to do
Walk softly tonight little angel
I wanna be alone with you
Talk softly to me tonight angel
Make all my dream-world come true
I remember standing in the freezing rain
Reading them want ads out on chelsea row
Winging down the street in search of new games
Hustling through the night packs where the actors go
Frankie they are crazy, lets run and hide
In the darkness therell be hidden worlds that shine
When all of the glory in this desperate land
Will rise like raindrops in the palm of our hands
Rise like the rain
Let your sadness rise
Walk softly tonight little angel
Into the shadows where the lovers go
Talk softly tonight angel
Whisper your secrets so soft and low
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!