The Wilderness
I came too late to the hills: they were swept bare
Winters before I was born of song and story,
Of spell or speech with power of oracle or invocation,
The great ash long dead by a roofless house, its branches rotten,
The voice of the crows an inarticulate cry,
And from the wells and springs the holy water ebbed away.
A child I ran in the wind on a withered moor
Crying out after those great presences who were not there,
Long lost in the forgetfulness of the forgotten.
Only the archaic forms themselves could tell!
In sacred speech of hoodie on gray stone, or hawk in air,
Of Eden where the lonely rowan bends over the dark pool.
Yet I have glimpsed the bright mountain behind the mountain,
Knowledge under the leaves, tasted the bitter berries red,
Drunk water cold and clear from an inexhaustible hidden fountain.
poem by Kathleen Jessie Raine
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Related quotes
Take The Water To The Mountain
Take the water to the mountain;
Take the river to the sea.
Let the forest be salvation
Long before it needs to be.
Take the water to the mountain;
Let your body flow upstream.
Let it cascade off your shoulders;
Be the body of your dreams.
Take the water to the mountain;
Let the sun shine on your ground.
You decide your every movement;
Let the water to the land.
Take the water to the mountain;
Cross the great divide of love.
Give to nature all you can give;
Let the mother know your heart.
Take the water to the mountain;
Lets become alive again.
Holy water, holy mountain,
Holy river, holy tree.
Pica!
song performed by by Yes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Take The Water To The Mountain
Take the water to the mountain;
Take the river to the sea.
Let the forest be salvation
Long before it needs to be.
Take the water to the mountain;
Let your body flow upstream.
Let it cascade off your shoulders;
Be the body of your dreams.
Take the water to the mountain;
Let the sun shine on your ground.
You decide your every movement;
Let the water to the land.
Take the water to the mountain;
Cross the great divide of love.
Give to nature all you can give;
Let the mother know your heart.
Take the water to the mountain;
Lets become alive again.
Holy water, holy mountain,
Holy river, holy tree.
Pica!
song performed by by Yes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Joy
Though joy is better than sorrow joy is not great;
Peace is great, strength is great.
Not for joy the stars burn, not for joy the vulture
Spreads her gray sails on the air
Over the mountain; not for joy the worn mountain
Stands, while years like water
Trench his long sides. 'I am neither mountain nor bird
Nor star; and I seek joy.'
The weakness of your breed: yet at length quietness
Will cover those wistful eyes.
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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The night sky is crying
There’s an old story
that the holy word holds true,
which happened in a time like today
when people lived only for themselves
and thought that they had knowledge
of the things around them.
The ancient poetry of Gilgamesh
proclaims that story
which some see as just a myth
and it is part of the traditions
of many nations
across the earth
and it says that once
long ago there was a cataclysmic flood,
like non other:
The night sky is crying
and tears are streaming
down to the earth
in splattering sheets.
The sound of the weeping wind
howls through the trees
sweeping green and yellow leaves
from the branches.
Thunderbolt after thunderbolt
roars down from the clouded sky
as if the elements are in terror.
The rain turn into hail
and from hail
into a blizzard of rivers
falling from the air,
as if the creator
is emptying a unknown ocean
onto the earth.
Hurricane storm winds shatter
and huge waves
brake with great power
and the water keep on rising
and lighting storms bash continuously
until man and beast are dead,
but for the people and animals
in that one solitary ship
that is save while the Creator
protects them
and even the dark spirits
fear the anger of the Almighty God.
When ever I see a rainbow
the story comes to my mind
and the promise,
that water will not destroy
the world again.
poem by Gert Strydom
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I Always Like The Northern Birches
I always s like the northern birches:
Their view, so downcast and grave,
The fever, which poor souls scorches,
Cools like the mute speech of a grave.
But yet, the willow, which branches,
With their long leaves, cast in a flood,
Is closer to a dream, that scourges,
And longer lives in our heart.
Deploring groves their own,
Their meadows – with bitter tears,
Tell birches to cold wind alone
Their common sufferings and fears.
Believing that the whole ground
Is motherland of sacred grieves,
The weeping willow all around
Inclines its branches with long leaves.
poem by Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet
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At the fountain in the ranges
Something stirred below the water
of a pool,
where a fountain splashes in.
There was no wind
and the long grass was motionless
and the branches of a sugar bush,
hanged somewhat protecting
over the pool
It was early morning
and the pool was still dark
and in its depths,
there were black spots
that stirred ominously.
When the day got brighter
a sunbird came to drink water
and looked time after time,
at its image on the water.
.
There were water beetles
that played in circles
and tadpoles, .
swimming up and down
and a dragonfly hanged suspended
above the water
Life was trapped for a moment
and out of the depths
a predatory fish appeared
and when the dragonfly touched the water,
it disappeared into the bill of the fish
and into the depths.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Autumnal Nightfall
Round Autumn's mouldering urn
Loud mourns the chill and cheerless gale,
When nightfall shades the quiet vale
And stars in beauty burn.
'Tis the year's eventide.
The wind, like one that sighs in pain
O?er joys that ne'er will bloom again
Mourns on the far hillside.
And yet my pensive eye
Rests on the faint blue mountain long;
And for the fairy-land of song,
That lies beyond, I sigh.
The moon unveils her brow;
In the mid-sky her urn glows bright,
And in her sad and mellowing light
The valley sleeps below.
Upon the hazel gray
The lyre of Autumn hangs unstrung
And o?er its tremulous chords are flung
The fringes of decay.
I stand deep musing here,
Beneath the dark and motionless beech,
Whilst wandering winds of nightfall reach
My melancholy ear.
The air breathes chill and free:
A spirit in soft music calls
From Autumn's gray and moss-grown halls,
And round her withered tree.
The hoar and mantled oak,
With moss and twisted ivy brown,
Bends in its lifeless beauty down
Where weeds the fountain choke.
That fountain's hollow voice
Echoes the sound of precious things;
Of early feeling's tuneful springs
Choked with our blighted joys.
Leaves, that the night-wind bears
To earth's cold bosom with a sign,
Are types of our mortality,
And of our fading years.
The tree that shades the plain,
Wasting and hoar as time decays,
Spring shall renew with cheerful days,--
But not my joys again.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Go, Tell It On The Mountain
Go, tell it on the mountain
Over the hills and everywhere
Go, tell it on the mountain
Our jesus christ is born
When I was just a learner
I sought by night and day
To have the good lord help me
To guide me on my way
For I am like a shepherd
My hopes and faith to guard
Each day I find the answer
And love is my reward
Go, tell it on the mountain
Over the hills and everywhere
Go, tell it on the mountain
Our jesus christ is born
The shepherds kept their watching
Oer silent flocks by night
When lo! throughout the heavens
There shone a holy light
The shepherds feared and trembled
When high above the earth
Rang out an angels chorus
To hail our saviors birth
Go, tell it on the mountain
Over the hills and everywhere
Go, tell it on the mountain
Our jesus christ is born
Go, tell it on the mountain
Over the hills and everywhere
Go, tell it on the mountain
Our jesus christ is born
Our jesus, jesus christ is born
That jesus christ is born
Go and tell, tell it on the mountain
That jesus christ, christ is born
song performed by by Diana Ross
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Water Of Love
High and dry in the long hot day
Lost and lonely in every way
Got the flats all around me sky up above
I need a little water of love
Ive been too long lonely and my heart feels pain
Crying out for some soothing rain
I believe I have taken enough
I need a little water of love
Water of love deep in the ground
No water here to be found
Some day baby when the river runs free
Itll carry that water of love to me
Theres a bird up in a tree sitting up high
Waiting for me to die
If I dont get some water soon
Ill be dead and gone in the afternoon
Once I had a woman I could call my own
Once I had a woman now my woman is gone
Once there was a river now theres a stone
You know its evil when youre living alone
song performed by by Dire Straits
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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O, water, voice of my heart...
O water, voice of my heart, crying in the sand,
All night long crying with a mournful cry,
As I lie and listen, and cannot understand
The voice of my heart in my side or the voice of the sea,
O water, crying for rest, is it I, is it I?
All night long the water is crying to me.
Unresting water, there shall never be rest
Till the last moon droop and the last tide fail,
And the fire of the end begin to burn in the west;
And the heart shall be weary and wonder and cry like the sea,
All life long crying without avail,
As the water all night long is crying to me.
poem by Arthur Symons
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The Rill From The Foot Of The Mountain
The rill from the foot of the mountain that joins the river to the sea
It has babbled on downhill forever by hedgerows in the high
Country
It has witnessed the birth and death of millions of Seasons even before the first Human was born
In the upland wood where it flows through the birds sing at dawn of the morn.
The rill it is truly immortal something that will live forever more
Forever 'twill flow to the river that flows to the great ocean shore
To it there is not a time limit it is as old as father time
It has inspired the long dead poets to glorify it in their rhyme.
The rill from the foot of the mountain towards the river ripples along
And sometimes above it's quiet babble the dippers can be heard in song
The dark brown white breasted waterbirds of Human kind they do seem shy
By the water-way they were born and in the water-way they will die.
The rill from the foot of the mountain downhill to the big river flow
The ancestors of the upland farmers who lived by it centuries ago
In the old Village graveyard it flows by with the long departed they lay
As on for to join the big river it babbles on it's downhill way.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Silhouette of my soul
The dark mountain behind me looks so different
For every time I look it’s changed
My soul has the same identity
For when I think I have finally got it under control
The silhouette changes
The mountain starts it day dark with a siloute that defines it
My soul is always in dark
The mountain gets more defined as sun comes up
My soul is always dark
The mountain end up dark again
The silhouette changes
My soul starts it day
Always hung-over from last days confusing silhouettes
so I begin clawing my way out of the deep hole
Even in sleep my soul is confusing
I dream about things that always seem in the dark
Then one of my silhouettes comes up and shines all the darkness away
Bring a smile to day that started with a mountain of undefined silhouettes
I can hold this in place as long as I need it, because I do…always
So when the darkness approaches to make the mountain undefined
It silhouette lost again my silhouette of counterfeit dies a death everyday
In comes the dark
Drunk again with so many silhouettes of my soul that want to be
I fall down under my mountain of darkness in a silhouette
My soul surrounded by light, but the face of my soul in the dark
Hidden the truth of what all these moments mean
So I pass out drunk on confusion for the next day will be the same
The silhouette of my soul
Long Yearning
Long yearning,
To be in Chang'an.
The grasshoppers weave their autumn song by the golden railing of the well;
Frost coalesces on my bamboo mat, changing its colour with cold.
My lonely lamp is not bright, I’d like to end these thoughts;
I roll back the hanging, gaze at the moon, and long sigh in vain.
The beautiful person's like a flower beyond the edge of the clouds.
Above is the black night of heaven's height;
Below is the green water billowing on.
The sky is long, the road is far, bitter flies my spirit;
The spirit I dream can't get through, the mountain pass is hard.
Long yearning,
Breaks my heart.
Diamond Mountain
Wind blows.
Rattled an invocation
two thousand years old
from bronze temple bells.
Brushes a susurrus
from ten thousand oak leaves.
Draws from their branches
the moaning
of two hundred year old wood,
the dry sound
of a long forgotten oboe.
Causes a seventy year old man
on a slatted bench
to tug a scarf across his chest.
Wind drops,
and slips back
into eternal silence
of measured decay.
Wind undefiled
speaking in many voices.
Diamond Mountain is
one hour high,
one hour wide,
one hour deep.
Every hundred years
a small bird comes
and rubs its beak.
When the whole mountain
is quite worn away,
the first second of Eternity
has passed.
poem by Brian Taylor
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Wasnt Born To Follow
(gerry goffin / carole king)
Though Id rather go and journey
Where the diamond crescents glowing
Run across the valleys
Beneath the sacred mountain
And wander through the forest
Where the trees of leaves are prisms
That break the light of day into colours
That no-one knows the names of
And when its time
I go and wait beside
A legendary fountain
til I see your form reflected
In its clear and jewelled water
And if you think Im ready
You may lead me to the chasm
Where the rivers of our vision
Flow into one another
And Ill stay awhile
And wonder at
The myths that theyve created
And lose myself within it
Cleanse my mind and body
And I know at the moment
As I stand in that cathedral
I will want to dive in
The white cascading water, water, water
He may beg
And he may plead
He may argue with his logic
He can mention all the things Ill lose
That really have no value
Though I doubt that he will ever come
To understand my meaning
In the end hell surely know
I was not born to follow
I was not born to follow
I wasnt born to follow, no, no
I wasnt born to follow
I wasnt born to follow, no, no
I wasnt born to follow
I wasnt born to follow
Said i......
song performed by by Dusty Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Water Anew
From mountain high to valley low, the warmth of springs thaw runoff comes clear cold water from the melting snow.
Spring rain, cool and clear, mist and fog, early morning's dew, creeks, rivers, lakes renew.
Though mud stained from the thaw, the water soon will clear, life sustaining, life anew.
With summer weather comes light or heavy rains, sprinkle, mist or fog, life sustaining, life anew.
With autumn arrives the cold, then frost, soon after winter follows, sleet and snow, water turns to ice.
Though covered with ice and winters snow, the water in creeks, rivers and lakes renew until springs thaw, the water still flows.
Whether spring, summer, autumn or winter, water, life sustaining, life anew.
poem by Alvin Schaut
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Santa Decca
THE Gods are dead: no longer do we bring
To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves!
Demeter's child no more hath tithe of sheaves,
And in the noon the careless shepherds sing,
For Pan is dead, and all the wantoning
By secret glade and devious haunt is o'er:
Young Hylas seeks the water-springs no more;
Great Pan is dead, and Mary's Son is King.
And yet--perchance in this sea-trancèd isle,
Chewing the bitter fruit of memory,
Some God lies hidden in the asphodel.
Ah Love! if such there be then it were well
For us to fly his anger: nay, but see
The leaves are stirring: let us watch a-while.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Wailing On A Mountain
I wail across the edge of mountains
To echo my speech, that is a roar.
The lion has a heart of language that is old,
Rent in twain, like fire in the wind.
It is volcanic to cry forever,
But the lion is always on fire
Like the same mountain or fountain.
Rain is against rain and showing what rain is,
But the weeping has changed from the awed observer
Who listens to my speech that echoed on a mountain pass.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Doves
The house where I was born,
Where I was young and gay,
Grows old amid its corn,
Amid its scented hay.
Moan of the cushat dove,
In silence rich and deep;
The old head I love
Nods to its quiet sleep.
Where once were nine and ten
Now two keep house together;
The doves moan and complain
All day in the still weather.
What wind, bitter and great,
Has swept the country's face,
Altered, made desolate
The heart-remembered place ?
What wind, bitter and wild,
Has swept the towering trees
Beneath whose shade a child
Long since gathered heartease ?
Under the golden eaves
The house is still and sad,
As though it grieves and grieves
For many a lass and lad.
The cushat doves complain
All day in the still weather;
Where once were nine or ten
But two keep house together.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Edge
I thought to die that night in the solitude where they would never find me…
But there was time…
And I lay quietly on the drawn knees of the mountain,
staring into the abyss…
I do not know how long…
I could not count the hours, they ran so fast
Like little bare-foot urchins - shaking my hands away…
But I remember
Somewhere water trickled like a thin severed vein…
And a wind came out of the grass,
Touching me gently, tentatively, like a paw.
As the night grew
The gray cloud that had covered the sky like sackcloth
Fell in ashen folds about the hills,
Like hooded virgins, pulling their cloaks about them…
There must have been a spent moon,
For the Tall One's veil held a shimmer of silver…
That too I remember…
And the tenderly rocking mountain
Silence
And beating stars…
Dawn
Lay like a waxen hand upon the world,
And folded hills
Broke into a sudden wonder of peaks, stemming clear and cold,
Till the Tall One bloomed like a lily,
Flecked with sun,
Fine as a golden pollen -
It seemed a wind might blow it from the snow.
I smelled the raw sweet essences of things,
And heard spiders in the leaves
And ticking of little feet,
As tiny creatures came out of their doors
To see God pouring light into his star…
… It seemed life held
No future and no past but this…
And I too got up stiffly from the earth,
And held my heart up like a cup…
poem by Lola Ridge
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