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The Summons

Straight to his death he went,
A smile on his lips,
All his life's joy unspent,
Into eclipse.

The song of the shell he heard
Cleaving the dark,
As though 'twere the song of a bird,
Linnet or lark.

Why would he go so fast
Out to the dead,
All in a heavenly haste
Not to be stayed?

What did he see afar
That drew him after?
Light from a merry star,
Singing and laughter?

Nay, but a face was his
Only in dreams,
Only in dreams of bliss
In the star-gleams.

Nay, but a face that watched
Long years to see
Who came by the door unlatched,
If it were he.

What was the voice before
That lured him on?
'Oh, thou long-hungered for,
My son, my son!'

Lo, he hath heard, hath seen,
He hath slipped over
Where the great days begin
For friend and lover.

poem by Katharine Tynan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes

Dreams Dreams Dreams

I dream of you, dreaming of me
In thy imagination, lovely and free

Astray on a unimaginable path
Where me and you are all we hath

Dreaming of dreams that should be
The mind of you to bind with me

In my dreams its thou I see
I see thou with my harmony

Dreams, Dreams, Dreams
Gleams, Gleams, Gleams

Gleams of you and gleams of me
In dreams of you in dreams of me

The gleams that hope
The gleams that elope

You to me and me to you
In dreams, dreams come true!

poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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The Singer

Nay! sing no more thy wild delusive strain
(I heard them say, while I my song pursued),
'Tis but the rage of thy delirious brain
(I heard them say, yet still my song renewed):
Nay! sing no more with reckless, idle breath
Of man immortal and of life to come,
For one brief moment scan the face of death,
Then be thy foolish song for ever dumb;
Behold the dusty ash that once was fire,
And mark the summer leaf in autumn fall,
Watch thou the wavering breath of man expire,
And know that Death hath lordship over all
(I heard them say with many a scornful word,
Yet still sang on as one who nothing heard).

poem by William Gay
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Mothers Day2007

She hath my heart, she is my mum.
She hath my heart, she is my only, she is my one.
She hath my heart, though rough winds may blow.
She hath my heart, still her love will flow, her love will always show.
She hath my heart, I thank my lucky stars.
She hath my heart and i have hers.
She hath my heart, i long for her presence.
She hath my heart, her name is essence.
She hath my heart and forever she will.
Lifetimes will come and go, i will love her still
She hath my heart, this fact i cant conceal
Our bond is like sentiment you just cant kill
She hath my heart in times of sorrow.
She hath my heart, yesterday, today and tomorrow.
She hath my heart, my voice will sing.
She hath my heart, she makes the bell in my heart ring.
She hath my heart, in times of trouble.
She wont stumble no i will not let her crumble.
She hath my heart in each and every way
And my love for her grows with each day
She hath my heart for we were once one.
She hath my heart, the heart of the boy inside the man
I hath her heart, the heart we once shared.
Though separated in body the hearts still paired.
She hath my heart i need her near.
She hath my heart my mama dear
She hath my heart and she already knows
In a world of thorny bushes she stands out like rose
She hath my heart for she is always by my side
When the sun sets she is my light, she is my guide.

poem by Soul Child
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A Flower's Song

Star! Star, why dost thou shine
Each night upon my brow?
Why dost thou make me dream the dreams
That I am dreaming now?

Star! Star, thy home is high --
I am of humble birth;
Thy feet walk shining o'er the sky,
Mine, only on the earth.

Star! Star, why make me dream?
My dreams are all untrue;
And why is sorrow dark for me
And heaven bright for you?

Star! Star, oh, hide thy ray,
And take it off my face;
Within my lowly home I stay,
Thou, in thy lofty place.

Star! Star, and still I dream,
Along thy light afar
I seem to soar until I seem
To be, like you, a star.

poem by Abram Joseph Ryan
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Whom the World Calls Idle

He is brother-born to the wind. Its song, in his heart implanted,
Stirs and wakes when the morning breaks and the wide horizon burns;
He is brother-born to the sea, and visions of isles enchanted
Slowly rise to his dreaming eyes from the furrow his labor turns.
Child of fate, be it soon or late that his heart he learns to know,
Not his to say if he roam or stay when the summons bids him go:
Brother-born to the wind of morn, he must share its endless quest
Who once hath heard the sovereign word of the gods of Great Unrest!

The stretch of the open road, the challenge of heights unmounted,
The distant cry of the beasts that lie at the mouth of some latent lair,
The sweep of the pathless plain and the speeding of miles uncounted,
When the rangers ride, with a star for guide, in the face of the battling air—
These are his whose fortune is, like the tireless tide’s, to roam,
Brother-born to the wind of morn, with the whole wide world for home:
Child of the soil, he must turn from toil to the dim and dreamt-of West,
Who once hath heard the sovereign word of the gods of Great Unrest!

Song of the stately pines to the winds of northward high lands,
Song of the palms across the calms that sleep on the long lagoon,
Glamour of breathless dawns on the shores of southward islands,
And the mystical light that tells the night of the birth of the tardy moon:
These—at the gate of his future fate, where the earthly questings end
And the shadows fall—he hath learned to call by the sacred name of friend;
These, in the strife of his hapless life, he hath learned to love the best
Who once hath heard the sovereign word of the gods of Great Unrest!

Then shall it be for us, who have dreamed no dream Elysian,
To cry the ban of our fellow-man who brings no grist to mill?
’T is the verve of his viking sires that awakes the plough-boy’s vision,
And the rover roil in the child of toil is the roil of the rover still!
What is it all, this thrill and thrall, that hath mapped his earthly plan,
Unless some gain we may not explain in the onward march of man?
Brother-born to the wind of morn, may his lot be not the best
Who once hath heard the sovereign word of the gods of Great Unrest?

poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1899)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Astrophel And Stella-First Song

Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,
Which now my breast o'ercharged to music lendeth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only in you my song begins and endeth.

Who hath the eyes which marry state with pleasure?
Who keeps the key of Nature's chiefest treasure?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only for you the heaven forgat all measure.

Who hath the lips where wit in fairness reigneth?
Who womankind at once both decks and staineth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only by you Cupid his crown maintaineth.

Who hath the feet whose step all sweetness planteth?
Who else, for whom Fame worthy trumpets wanteth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only to you her sceptre Venus granteth.

Who hath the breast whose milk doth passions nourish?
Whose grace is such that when it chides doth cherish?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only through you the tree of life doth flourish.

Who hath the hand which without stroke subdueth?
Who long-dead beauty with increase reneweth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only at you all envy hopeless rueth.

Who hath the hair which, loosest, fastest tieth?
Who makes a man live then glad when he dieth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only of you the flatterer never lieth.

Who hath the voice which soul from senses sunders?
Whose force but yours the bolts of beauty thunders?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;

Only with you not miracles are wonders.

Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,
Which now my breast o'ercharged to music lendeth?
To you, to you, all song of praise is due;
Only in you my song begins and endeth.

poem by Philip Sidney
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The Voice of the Swamp Oak

Who hath lain him underneath
A lone oak by a lonely stream;
He hath heard an utterance breathe
Sadder than all else may seen.
Up in its dusk boughs out-tressing,
Like the hair of a giant’s head,
Mournful things beyond our guessing
Day and night are uttered.

Even when the waveless air
May only stir the lightest leaf,
A lowly voice keeps moaning there
Wordless oracles of grief.

But when nightly blasts are roaming,
Lowly is that voice no more;
From the streaming branches coming
Elfin shrieks are heard to pour.

While between the blast on-passing,
And the blast that comes as oft,
Mid those boughs, dark intermassing,
One long low wail pines aloft.

Till the listener surely deems
That some weird spirit of the air
Hath made those boughs the lute of themes
Wilder, darker than despair.

Darker than a woe whose morrow
Must be travelling to an end—
Wilder than the wildest sorrow
That in death hath still a friend;

Some lonely spirit that hath dwelt
For ages in one lonely tree—
Some weary spirit that hath felt
The burthen of eternity.

poem by Charles Harpur
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One Of Twain

One of twain, twin-born with flowers that waken,
Now hath passed from sense of sun and rain:
Wind from off the flower-crowned branch hath shaken
One of twain.

One twin flower must pass, and one remain:
One, the word said soothly, shall be taken,
And another left: can death refrain?

Two years since was love's light song mistaken,
Blessing then both blossoms, half in vain?
Night outspeeding light hath overtaken
One of twain.

Night and light? O thou of heart unwary,
Love, what knowest thou here at all aright,
Lured, abused, misled as men by fairy
Night and light?

Haply, where thine eyes behold but night,
Soft as o'er her babe the smile of Mary
Light breaks flowerwise into new-born sight.

What though night of light to thee be chary?
What though stars of hope like flowers take flight?
Seest thou all things here, where all see vary
Night and light?

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Sestina

I saw my soul at rest upon a day
As a bird sleeping in the nest of night,
Among soft leaves that give the starlight way
To touch its wings but not its eyes with light;
So that it knew as one in visions may,
And knew not as men waking, of delight.

This was the measure of my soul's delight;
It had no power of joy to fly by day,
Nor part in the large lordship of the light;
But in a secret moon-beholden way
Had all its will of dreams and pleasant night,
And all the love and life that sleepers may.

But such life's triumph as men waking may
It might not have to feed its faint delight
Between the stars by night and sun by day,
Shut up with green leaves and a little light;
Because its way was as a lost star's way,
A world's not wholly known of day or night.

All loves and dreams and sounds and gleams of night
Made it all music that such minstrels may,
And all they had they gave it of delight;
But in the full face of the fire of day
What place shall be for any starry light,
What part of heaven in all the wide sun's way?

Yet the soul woke not, sleeping by the way,
Watched as a nursling of the large-eyed night,
And sought no strength nor knowledge of the day,
Nor closer touch conclusive of delight,
Nor mightier joy nor truer than dreamers may,
Nor more of song than they, nor more of light.

For who sleeps once and sees the secret light
Whereby sleep shows the soul a fairer way
Between the rise and rest of day and night,
Shall care no more to fare as all men may,
But be his place of pain or of delight,
There shall he dwell, beholding night as day.

Song, have thy day and take thy fill of light
Before the night be fallen across thy way;
Sing while he may, man hath no long delight.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Our Sweet Singer

J. A.

ONE memory trembles on our lips;
It throbs in every breast;
In tear-dimmed eyes, in mirth's eclipse,
The shadow stands confessed.

O silent voice, that cheered so long
Our manhood's marching day,
Without thy breath of heavenly song,
How weary seems the way!

Vain every pictured phrase to tell
Our sorrowing heart's desire,--
The shattered harp, the broken shell,
The silent unstrung lyre;

For youth was round us while he sang;
It glowed in every tone;
With bridal chimes the echoes rang,
And made the past our own.

Oh blissful dream! Our nursery joys
We know must have an end,
But love and friendship's broken toys
May God's good angels mend!

The cheering smile, the voice of mirth
And laughter's gay surprise
That please the children born of earth.
Why deem that Heaven denies?

Methinks in that refulgent sphere
That knows not sun or moon,
An earth-born saint might long to hear
One verse of 'Bonny Doon';

Or walking through the streets of gold
In heaven's unclouded light,
His lips recall the song of old
And hum 'The sky is bright.'

And can we smile when thou art dead?
Ah, brothers, even so!
The rose of summer will be red,
In spite of winter's snow.

Thou wouldst not leave us all in gloom
Because thy song is still,
Nor blight the banquet-garland's bloom
With grief's untimely chill.

The sighing wintry winds complain,--
The singing bird has flown,--
Hark! heard I not that ringing strain,
That clear celestial tone?

How poor these pallid phrases seem,
How weak this tinkling line,
As warbles through my waking dream
That angel voice of thine!

Thy requiem asks a sweeter lay;
It falters on my tongue;
For all we vainly strive to say,
Thou shouldst thyself have sung!

poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Shooting Star

VERSE:
Johnny was a school boy when he heard his first Beatles song
Love Me Do, I think it was and from there it didn't take him long
Got himself a guitar, used to play every night
Now he's in a rock & roll outfit, and everything's all right
BRIDGE:
Don't you know?
VERSE:
Johnny told his Momma, Hey Momma I'm goin' away
I'm gonna hit the big time, gonna be a big star someday
Momma came to the door with a tear drop in her eye
Johnny said, Don't cry Momma smile & wave goodbye
CHORUS:
Don't you know, yeah, yeah
Don't you know that you are a shooting star
Don't you know, don't you know
Don't you know that you are a shooting star
And all the world will love you just as long
As long as you are
VERSE:
Johnny made a record, went straight up to number one
Suddenly everyone loved to hear him sing the song
Watching the world go by, surprisin' it goes so fast
Johnny looked around him and said, Well, I made the big time at
last
CHORUS:
Don't you know, don't you know
Don't you know that you are a shooting star
Don't you know, woah yeah
Don't you know that you are a shooting star, yeah
And all the world will love you just as long
As long as you are, a shooting star
Don't you know that you are a shooting star
Don't you know, ahhh
Don't you know that you are a shooting star
And all the world will love you just as long
As long as you are
Johnny died one night, died in his bed
Bottle of whiskey, sleepin' tablets by his head
Johnny's life passed him by like a warm summer day
If you listen to the wind, you can still hear him play
Woah...
Don't you know that you are a shooting star
Don't you know, don't you know
Don't you know that you are a shooting star
Don't you know
Don't you know that you are a shooting star
Don't you, don't you, don't you, don't you, don't you know
Don't you know you are a shooting star
Na, na, na, na..

song performed by by Iced Earth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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song performed by by Bad Company
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Return

Who knocks at the door so late, so late—
Who knocks so late at the door?
Is it one who comes as a stranger comes,
Or one who has knocked before?
Is it one who stays with intent to bless,
Or one who stands to implore?

My days have been as the years, she said,
And my heart, my heart is sore;
Love looked in my face for a moment's space
One happy spring of yore—
Looked in my face with a wistful grace:
And left me to grieve evermore!

Through all the days the door stood wide,
For hope had breathed a vow
That love should ne'er be kept outside.
The years were long and hope hath died;
The door at last is barred and fast—
Why comes this knocking now?

Yet woe the waiting heart, she said,
And the heart it waiteth for!
And woe the truth and wasted youth
That nothing shall restore!
The faith that's fled, the hope that's dead,
The dreams that come no more.

Who knocks at the gate—so late, so late?
Thou foolish heart, be still!
What is 't to thee if love or hate
Knocks in the midnight chill?
Art thou, poor heart, compassionate?
Is love so hard to kill?

Ah me! the night is cold, she said;
Would I might all forget;
But memory lives when hope is dead,
And pity heals regret;
As light still lingers overhead
When sun and moon are set.

poem by Florence Earle Coates from Mine and Thine (1904)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Lady of the Motor Car

The Lady of the Motor-car she stareth straight ahead;
Her face is like the stone, my friend, her face is like the dead;
Her face is like the stone, my friend, because she is “well-bred”—
Because her heart is dead, my friend, as all her life was dead.
The Lady of the Motor-car she speaketh like a man,
Because her girlhood never was, nor womanhood began.
She says, “To the Aus-traliah, John!” and “Home” when she hath been.
And to the husband at her side she says, “Whhat doo you mean?”

The Lady of the Motor-car her very soul is dead,
Because she never helped herself nor had to work for bread;
The Lady of the Motor-car sits in her sitting-room,
Her stony face has never changed though all the land is gloom.

Her motor-car hath gone to hell—the hell that man hath made;
She sitteth in her sitting-room, and she is not afraid;
Nor fear of life or death, or worse, could change her well-bred mien;
She knits socks in a stony way, and says, “Whhat doo they mean?”

The lady in her carriage sits, with cushions turning green—
And once it was a mourning-coach, and once it held a queen.
Behind a coachman and a horse too old to go to war,
She driveth to her “four o’clocks” and to her sick and poor.

And when the enemy bombards and walls begin to fall,
The Lady of the Motor-car shall stand above you all;
Amongst the strong and silent brave, and those who pray or shriek,
She’ll nurse the wounded from the grave and pacify the weak.

And if the enemy prevails, with death on every side,
The Lady of the Car shall die as heroines have died,
But if the victory remains, she’ll be what she hath been,
And, sitting in her motor-car, shall say: “
Whhat doo you mean?
”

poem by Henry Lawson
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If You Could Come

My love, my love, if you could come once more
From your high place,
I would not question you for heavenly lore,
But, silent, take the comfort of your face.

I would not ask you if those golden spheres
In love rejoice,
If only our stained star hath sin and tears,
But fill my famished hearing with your voice.

One touch of you were worth a thousand creeds.
My wound is numb
Through toil-pressed, but all night long it bleeds
In aching dreams, and still you cannot come.

poem by Katharine Lee Bates
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Song For A Star

This is a song for a star
If you really are a star
Here is a song for you all
Take a lesson before you fall

We're caught in the middle of everything
It's like trying to figure out which bell to ring
You think you'd made the start of it
But this is just the start of it now

Steppin' in time with your pace
Tho' we've never yet met face to face
This is a song for yourself
In the hopes that we don't do it wrong

We're caught in the middle of everything
Lookin' and turnin' out songs to sing
It could've been the start of it
But this is just the start of it now

You can be a star if you can climb
Just make sure you are in the nick of time

This is a song for a star (song for a star)
This is a song for a star (song for a star)
This is a song for a star
If you really are a star
This to whoever you are
If you really are a star

song performed by by Bryan Adams from Sweeney Todd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When to sing a song

Walls at gray-scale hath me inside
Life ahead heard, never I sensed
A bird no doubt in humanly pride
Of reasons, aye reasons' nonsense

Of mine voice so ill, undeniably shaky
never spoke thus called crazy
I to earth a victim, a patsy
Walls over walls my escape to beauty

Hath I no other thoughts but escape
my knife I plunged quickly to climb
yet as much closer to top's no safe
The beating inside to my body; rhyme

On border tall I merely balance
my view to color was still
I sing a song, I caught a glance
an eagle strikes to kill

A second, mine foot step aback in fright
There I nearly touch the light
All to black, I lost mine sight
I fell down to mine great height

Broken my dreams, consumed all the hope
mine world dims, lost all mine rope
mine goals are now nightmare
Scared I am much to go there

All left to me was to stare
I fired a flare to catch an eye
Dismayed naught I; some do care
yet none but mere words and lie

I sang a song to gather help
yet came a fierce predator cat
I shriek in fear, to save myself
heard I not howl but wings of bat

The fear never fade, bats were black
his bare squeaks brought him aback
I again sang a song in gloom;
'This world to me is no room...'

'twas years and a year ago
I was left in solitude
Never knew where to go
no things I knew I should

Gray were walls since birth of time
me and fate I guess should rhyme
I now in gray for walls are too long
engulf the life and sing a song

Down I was to earth in dearth
walls break down on itself
up I go in joy and irk
was it fate or destiny's help?

There I saw how ephemeral walls are
Our world ain't gray but the other way
Those songs aren't sung to be a star
but to tell the world of mine heart's say

To go against the current of life
will never be a better choice
To strike, attack, or plunge your knife
wouldn't help them hear your voice

poem by Ellirie Aviles
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A Twilight Song

Why, rapturous bird, though shades of night
Muffle the leaves and swathe the lawn,
Singest thou still with all thy might,
As though 'twere noon, as though 'twere dawn?
Silence darkens on vale and hill,
But thou, unseen, art singing still.

'Tis because, though in dusky bower,
With love delighted still thou art;
Nor hath the deepening twilight power
To lay a curfew on thy heart.
Thou lovest; and, loving, dost prolong
The sense of sunlight with thy song.

Thus may love's rapture haunt me still
When life's full radiance fadeth slow
Along the faltering west, and fill
With melody my afterglow,
And something of Song's morning might
Linger, to make you doubt 'tis night.

poem by Alfred Austin
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Ghost

I believe I saw your image moving quickly
To hide amongst the shadows along the wall,
Or were my eyes playing tricks on me?
I thought I heard your gentle voice
Singing the words to a familiar song,
Or was it my imagination?
I swore I felt your sweet laughter
Pass by my ear,
Soft as a whisper in the night,
Or was it only wishful thinking?
I know I saw your lovely face
In my dreams,
Bathed in heavenly light,
There is no doubt in my mind

poem by Erika Wingo
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To The Beloved

Beauty beloved, who hast my heart inspired,
Seen from afar, or with thy face concealed,
Save, when in visions of the night revealed,
Or seen in daydreams bright,
When all the fields are filled with light,
And Nature's smile is sweet,
Say, hast thou blessed
Some golden age of innocence,
And floatest, now, a shadow, o'er the earth?
Or hath Fate's envious doom
Reserved thee for some happier day to come?

To see thee e'er alive,
No hope remains to me;
Unless perchance, when from this body free,
My wandering spirit, lone,
O'er some new path, to some new world hath flown.
E'en here, at first, I, at the dawn
Of this, my day, so dreary and forlorn,
Sought thee, to guide me on my weary way:
But none on earth resembles thee. E'en if
One were in looks and acts and words thy peer,
Though like thee, she less lovely would appear.

Amidst the deepest grief
That fate hath e'er to human lot assigned,
Could one but love thee on this earth,
Alive, and such as my thought painteth thee,
He would be happy in his misery:
And I most clearly see, how, still,
As in my earliest days,
Thy love would make me cling to virtue's ways.
Unto _my_ grief heaven hath no comfort brought;
And yet with thee, this mortal life would seem
Like that in heaven, of which we fondly dream.

Along the valleys where is heard
The song of the laborious husbandman,
And where I sit and moan
O'er youth's illusions gone;
Along the hills, where I recall with tears,
The vanished joys and hopes of earlier years,
At thought of thee, my heart revives again.
O could I still thy image dear retain,
In this dark age, and in this baleful air!
To loss of thee, O let me be resigned,
And in thy image still some comfort find!

If thou art one of those
Ideas eternal, which the Eternal Mind
Refused in earthly form to clothe,
Nor would subject unto the pain and strife
Of this, our frail and dreary life;
Or if thou hast a mansion fair,
Amid the boundless realms of space,
That lighted is by a more genial sun,
And breathest there a more benignant air;
From here, where brief and wretched are our days,
Receive thy humble lover's hymn of praise!

poem by Count Giacomo Leopardi
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En.Citatepedia®.ro

The Summons

Related quotes

Dreams Dreams Dreams

The Singer

Mothers Day2007

A Flower's Song

Whom the World Calls Idle

Astrophel And Stella-First Song

The Voice of the Swamp Oak

One Of Twain

Sestina

Our Sweet Singer

Shooting Star

Shooting Star

The Return

The Lady of the Motor Car

If You Could Come

Song For A Star

When to sing a song

A Twilight Song

Ghost

To The Beloved

En.Citatepedia^®.ro