Companioned
I walked to-day, but not alone,
Adown a windy, sea-girt lea,
For memory, spendthrift of her charm,
Peopled the silent lands for me.
The faces of old comradeship
In golden youth were round my way,
And in the keening wind I heard
The songs of many an orient day.
And to me called, from out the pines
And woven grasses, voices dear,
As if from elfin lips should fall
The mimicked tones of yesteryear.
Old laughter echoed o'er the leas
And love-lipped dreams the past had kept,
From wayside blooms like honeyed bees
To company my wanderings crept.
And so I walked, but not alone,
Right glad companionship had I,
On that gray meadow waste between
Dim-litten sea and winnowed sky.
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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Related quotes
A Summer Day
I
The dawn laughs out on orient hills
And dances with the diamond rills;
The ambrosial wind but faintly stirs
The silken, beaded gossamers;
In the wide valleys, lone and fair,
Lyrics are piped from limpid air,
And, far above, the pine trees free
Voice ancient lore of sky and sea.
Come, let us fill our hearts straightway
With hope and courage of the day.
II
Noon, hiving sweets of sun and flower,
Has fallen on dreams in wayside bower,
Where bees hold honeyed fellowship
With the ripe blossom of her lip;
All silent are her poppied vales
And all her long Arcadian dales,
Where idleness is gathered up
A magic draught in summer's cup.
Come, let us give ourselves to dreams
By lisping margins of her streams.
III
Adown the golden sunset way
The evening comes in wimple gray;
By burnished shore and silver lake
Cool winds of ministration wake;
O'er occidental meadows far
There shines the light of moon and star,
And sweet, low-tinkling music rings
About the lips of haunted springs.
In quietude of earth and air
'Tis meet we yield our souls to prayer.
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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A Cup Of Wine Would I Give Thee
May the sun ever shine
upon your hair
may stardust light your way.
So the glory you enfold
may shine forth like a rainbow
made of elfin coloured gold.
May the wind ever cool your brow
and whisper
to you of wonders
it has seen on other days.
So you may ever walk
in a fresh tender breeze
while the wind serenades sings
for you among the enchanted trees.
Telling you of stories as wondrous
as tints of Autumn’s falling leaves
yet amazingly diverse
like the springtime flight of bees.
Sacred bees should fly
only to the sweetest
of wild meadow flower,
then seek out far flung blooms
treasures that grace
only secret hidden glades.
In remembrance of starset lovers
in consecrated blessing
of their finest hour.
Gathered nectar
mixed on nuptial wind
Greek gods
would bring to me
upon your lips
only could it
honoured be
a cup of honeyed wine
would I give to thee.
Fain would the angels be
when I held that cup to thee.
I would give you wine and song
to bless the startling memory
of first reborn celestial day,
veiled in radiance, you came along.
When you touched my heart
with a love, pure, endures ever lasts.
Took me from cold depths of stone
to a jewel, radiant shines for us alone.
In another world we roam
always together
never more apart
on breath of love
that endures longer
than mere mortal heart.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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In Walks Love Again
(robert palmer)
We asked all our friends
Where would this desire lead?
Spoke to each others hearts
Willed it not to be a dream
What would it take
But two in tune imaginations?
It was too late to pretend it wasnt real
When in walked love again
Cooler than youve ever seen
In walked love again
Showing us how it should be
We were sure, this time
That we knew where one another stood
Love runs its own course
Too late to change it
If we could
Still questions came
Now we were faced with trusting danger
We caught the blame
Could we let each other go?
When in walked love again
Smiling like a lover can
In walked love again
There you are and here I am
In walked love again
My woman said: can you take it?
I said to her: we can make it, yeah
In walked love again
Cooler than youve ever seen
In walked love again
Showin us how it should be
In walked love again
Smilin like a lover can
In walked love again
There you are and here I am
In walked love again
Walkin again
In walked love again
Walkin again
In walked love again
Chasin after you and me
In walked love again
Braver than our wildest dreams
song performed by by Robert Palmer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Samantha
One night in a cold sweat
I heard the call
So without fear and free from fright
I walked tall
As I crept the passages
Only just but faint
In and out of the central heating
It came and then went
Samantha, samantha dear
I have to be gone
Samantha, oh samantha dear
But ooh, she slept on
Well Ive itched a thousand itches
But this one tops them all
While crouched down with an ear to the ground
I saw the call
Springing up in disbelief
The supension spilt
And peering in a bathroom mirror
Hung the men with guilt
Samantha, samantha dear
I have to be gone
Samantha, oh samantha dear
But ooh, she slept on
One night in a cold sweat
I heard the call
So without fear and free from fright
I walked tall
Samantha, samantha dear
I have to be gone
Samantha, oh samantha dear
But
Samantha, samantha dear
I have to be gone
Samantha, oh samantha dear
But
There were all sorts of funny faces
Being pulled
But mine was the funniest face
Samantha, samantha dear
I have to be gone
Samantha, oh samantha dear
But ooh, she slept on
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cease smilng, Dear! a little while be sad
Cease smiling, Dear! a little while be sad,
Here in the silence, under the wan moon;
Sweet are thine eyes, but how can I be glad,
Knowing they change so soon?
For Love's sake, Dear, be silent! Cover me
In the deep darkness of thy falling hair:
Fear is upon me and the memory
Of what is all men's share.
O could this moment be perpetuate!
Must we grow old, and leaden-eyed and gray,
And taste no more the wild and passionate
Love sorrows of to-day?
Grown old, and faded, Sweet! and past desire,
Let memory die, lest there be too much ruth,
Remembering the old, extinguished fire
Of our divine, lost youth.
O red pomegranate of thy perfect mouth!
My lips' life-fruitage, might I taste and die
Here in thy garden, where the scented south
Wind chastens agony;
Reap death from thy live lips in one long kiss,
And look my last into thine eyes and rest:
What sweets had life to me sweeter than this
Swift dying on thy breast?
Or, if that may not be, for Love's sake, Dear!
Keep silence still, and dream that we shall lie,
Red mouth to mouth, entwined, and always hear
The south wind's melody,
Here in thy garden, through the sighing boughs,
Beyond the reach of time and chance and change,
And bitter life and death, and broken vows,
That sadden and estrange.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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The Call of the Winds
Ho, come out with the wind of spring,
And step it blithely in woodlands waking;
Friend am I of each growing thing
From the gray sod into sunshine breaking;
Mine is the magic of twilights dim,
Of violets blue on the still pool's rim,
Mine is the breath of the blossoms young
Sweetest of fragrances storied or sung
Come, ye earth-children, weary and worn,
I will lead you over the hills of morn.
Ho, come out with the summer wind,
And loiter in meadows of ripening clover,
Where the purple noons are long and kind,
And the great white clouds drift fleecily over.
Mine is immortal minstrelsy,
The fellowship of the rose and bee,
Beguiling laughter of willowed rills,
The rejoicing of pines on inland hills,
Come, ye earth-children, by dale and stream,
I will lead you into the ways of dream.
Ho, when the wind of autumn rings
Through jubilant mornings crisp and golden,
Come where the yellow woodland flings
Its hoarded wealth over by-ways olden.
Mine are the grasses frosted and sere,
That lisp and rustle around the mere,
Mine are the flying racks that dim
The lingering sunset's reddening rim,
Earth-children, come, in the waning year,
I will harp you to laughter and buoyant cheer.
Ho, when the wind of winter blows
Over the uplands and moonlit spaces,
Come ye out to the waste of snows,
To the glimmering fields and the silent places.
I whistle gaily on starry nights
Through the arch of the elfin northern lights,
But in long white valleys I pause to hark
Where the ring of the home-lights gems the dark.
Come, ye earth-children, whose hearts are sad,
I will make you valiant and strong and glad!
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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The dreams
Two dreams came down to earth one night
From the realm of mist and dew;
One was a dream of the old, old days,
And one was a dream of the new.
One was a dream of a shady lane
That led to the pickerel pond
Where the willows and rushes bowed themselves
To the brown old hills beyond.
And the people that peopled the old-time dream
Were pleasant and fair to see,
And the dreamer he walked with them again
As often of old walked he.
Oh, cool was the wind in the shady lane
That tangled his curly hair!
Oh, sweet was the music the robins made
To the springtime everywhere!
Was it the dew the dream had brought
From yonder midnight skies,
Or was it tears from the dear, dead years
That lay in the dreamer's eyes?
The other dream ran fast and free,
As the moon benignly shed
Her golden grace on the smiling face
In the little trundle-bed.
For 't was a dream of times to come--
Of the glorious noon of day--
Of the summer that follows the careless spring
When the child is done with play.
And 't was a dream of the busy world
Where valorous deeds are done;
Of battles fought in the cause of right,
And of victories nobly won.
It breathed no breath of the dear old home
And the quiet joys of youth;
It gave no glimpse of the good old friends
Or the old-time faith and truth.
But 't was a dream of youthful hopes,
And fast and free it ran,
And it told to a little sleeping child
Of a boy become a man!
These were the dreams that came one night
To earth from yonder sky;
These were the dreams two dreamers dreamed--
My little boy and I.
And in our hearts my boy and I
Were glad that it was so;
He loved to dream of days to come,
And I of long ago.
So from our dreams my boy and I
Unwillingly awoke,
But neither of his precious dream
Unto the other spoke.
Yet of the love we bore those dreams
Gave each his tender sign;
For there was triumph in his eyes--
And there were tears in mine!
poem by Eugene Field
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Under the Figtree
Like drifts of balm from cedared glens, those darling memories come,
With soft low songs, and dear old tales, familiar to our home.
Then breathe again that faint refrain, so tender, sad, and true,
My soul turns round with listening eyes unto the harp and you!
The fragments of a broken Past are floating down the tide,
And she comes gleaming through the dark, my love, my life, my bride!
Oh! sit and sing — I know her well, that phantom deadly fair
With large surprise, and sudden sighs, and streaming midnight hair!
I know her well, for face to face we stood amongst the sheaves,
Our voices mingling with a mist of music in the leaves!
I know her well, for hand in hand we walked beside the sea,
And heard the huddling waters boom beneath this old Figtree.
God help the man that goes abroad amongst the windy pines,
And wanders, like a gloomy bat, where never morning shines!
That steals about amidst the rout of broken stones and graves,
When round the cliffs the merry skiffs go scudding through the waves;
When, down the bay, the children play, and scamper on the sand,
And Life and Mirth illume the Earth, and Beauty fills the Land!
God help the man! He only hears and fears the sleepless cries
Of smitten Love — of homeless Love and moaning Memories.
Oh! when a rhyme of olden time is sung by one so dear,
I feel again the sweetest pain I’ve known for many a year;
And from a deep, dull sea of sleep faint fancies come to me,
And I forget how lone we sit beneath this old Figtree.
poem by Henry Kendall
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The Rovers
Over the fields we go, through the sweets of the purple clover,
That letters a message for us as for every vagrant rover;
Before us the dells are abloom, and a leaping brook calls after,
Feeling its kinship with us in lore of dreams and laughter.
Out of the valleys of moonlight elfin voices are calling;
Down from the misty hills faint, far greetings are falling;
Whisper the grasses to us, murmuring gleeful and airy,
Knowing us pixy-led, seeking the haunts of faery.
The wind is our joyful comrade wherever our free feet wander,
Over the tawny wolds to the meres and meadows yonder;
The mild-eyed stars go with us, or the rain so swiftly flying,
Racing us over the wastes where the hemlocks and pines are sighing.
Across the upland dim, down through the beckoning hollow
Oh, we go too far and fast for the feet of care to follow!
The gypsy fire in our hearts for the wilderness wide and luring;
Other loves may fail but this is great and enduring.
Other delights may pall, but the joy of the open never;
The charm of the silent places must win and hold us forever;
Bondage of walls we leave with never a glance behind us.
Under the lucent sky the delights of the rover shall find us.
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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When you walked in my life...
When you walked in my life
You wiped my tears
When you walked in my life
You built my heart strong
When you walked in my life
You made my life precious
When you walked in my life
You taught me meaning of love
When you walked in my life
You showed me many things
When you walked in my life
You made my love grow for you
When you walked in my life
You told me how much I mean to you
When you walked in my life
You made your caring soul inside me
When you walked in my life
You gave me memories to cherish forever
And I will there for you till my eyes close dear
poem by Ravi Sathasivam
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Behind The Veil
The withdrawing bees sit on the blooms,
Dusts of yellow fall and start to groom,
The prosecuted flowers, accused of waywardness,
The bees are brought to identify, the lady pregnant,
Points the finger at one, who is in prime,
To take care her deposit in the silent shrine,
Bees get off guard, wrong genetic code,
The community of bees not to want to ride,
And conspire to keep the blooms on guard,
Each matured flower to be covered,
From the wavy petals to the leggy stem,
Just an opening for the rays to peep in,
The blooms on cover, not to attract the bees,
The blooms watch and enjoy exclusive.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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A Day Off
Let us put awhile away
All the cares of work-a-day,
For a golden time forget,
Task and worry, toil and fret,
Let us take a day to dream
In the meadow by the stream.
We may lie in grasses cool
Fringing a pellucid pool,
We may learn the gay brook-runes
Sung on amber afternoons,
And the keen wind-rhyme that fills
Mossy hollows of the hills.
Where the wild-wood whisper stirs
We may talk with lisping firs,
We may gather honeyed blooms
In the dappled forest glooms,
We may eat of berries red
O'er the emerald upland spread.
We may linger as we will
In the sunset valleys still,
Till the gypsy shadows creep
From the starlit land of sleep,
And the mist of evening gray
Girdles round our pilgrim way.
We may bring to work again
Courage from the tasselled glen,
Bring a strength unfailing won
From the paths of cloud and sun,
And the wholesome zest that springs
From all happy, growing things.
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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Armorel
WHEN within the rippling tide
Shakes the silver-pointed moon,
When the rainbow flies of noon
All have died,
When the bats go wheeling far,
And the mournful owl has cried
Twice or thrice a-down the glen
Gray with gathering shade, and when
Gates o' dream are held ajar,–
From the alders in the dell,
From the bracken fronds astir,
Elfin voices call to her,–
'Armorel !'
She shall glide the garden down,
Treading softly, treading slow,
And with silent feet shall go
Past the Mary-lilies white,
Past the pansies, gold and brown,
Grown for her delight.
One white moth her guide shall be,
She shall follow where he flies,
Patiently, with dream-lit eyes;
Past the thyme and savoury,
Past the mystic asphodel,
For the voices in her ear
Call her softly, call her clear,–
'Armorel !'
Into valleys strange and dim,
All unseen and all unknown,
Fleetly shall she follow him,
Fairy-led, alone.
She shall hear within the brake
Elfin crickets pipe and sing,
While the elfin spiders make
Sendal for her furnishing,
Red as pimpernel.
She shall see the dreams go by,
Silver-pinioned, through the sky;
Where she wanders none may tell,
But the voices come and go,
Calling sweetly, calling low,
'Armorel !'
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Georgia Dusk
The sky, lazily disdaining to pursue
The setting sun, too indolent to hold
A lengthened tournament for flashing gold,
Passively darkens for night's barbeque,
A feast of moon and men and barking hounds.
An orgy for some genius of the South
With blood-hot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth,
Surprised in making folk-songs from soul sounds.
The sawmill blows its whistle, buzz-saws stop,
And silence breaks the bud of knoll and hill,
Soft settling pollen where plowed lands fulfill
Their early promise of a bumper crop.
Smoke from the pyramidal sawdust pile
Curls up, blue ghosts of trees, tarrying low
Where only chips and stumps are left to show
The solid proof of former domicile.
Meanwhile, the men, with vestiges of pomp,
Race memories of king and caravan,
High-priests, an ostrich, and a juju-man,
Go singing through the footpaths of the swamp.
Their voices rise...the pine trees are guitars,
Strumming, pine-needles fall like sheets of rain..
Their voices rise...the chorus of the cane
Is caroling a vesper to the stars..
O singers, resinous and soft your songs
Above the sacred whisper of the pines,
Give virgin lips to cornfield concubines,
Being dreams of Christ to dusky cane-lipped throngs.
poem by Jean Toomer
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The Moors
NOT in rich glebe and ripe green garden only
Does Summer weave her sweet resistless spells,
But in high hills, and moorlands waste and lonely,
The vast enchantment of her presence dwells.
Wide sky, and sky-wide waste of thyme and heather,
Perpetual sleepy hum of golden bees--
If you and I were only there together,
Free from the weight of all your garden's trees!
The north is mine; though bred by elm and meadow,
Pines, torrents, rocks, and moors my heart loves best;
I love the plover's wail, the cleft hill's shadow,
The sun-browned grass that is the skylark's nest.
Ah, yes! you too I love, dear wistful pleader,
You most I love, dear southern rose, half-blown,
And rather lounge with you beneath your cedar,
Than greet the moor's wide heaven-on-earth alone.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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A Walk In Vienna Woods
In the Vienna Woods, I took a walk
A March dampness in the air
The trees were still Winter bare
Standing stoic as if in silent talk.
Sunless snow caked in crevices and cracks
Biding the time that would bring
Mortal melting from the Spring
As I plodded onwards down trodden tracks.
In the gloomy skies no birds could be seen
And there was no wild life here
No lizard, squirrel or deer
Nothing to bear witness that I had been.
These woods have made music and ancient tales
But I heard no songs this day
Just leaves dropping in the way
Like fluttering souls caught on windy wails.
Countless numbers have passed this path before
But each as I, walked alone
Aging muscle, thinning bone
Failing flesh that ends at the seasons’ Fall
On sodden soil I walked with weary tread
Through mist where I couldn’t see
Past the shadow of each tree
Yet, a beautiful city lays ahead.
Has She Forgotten?
I.
Has she forgotten? On this very May
We were to meet here, with the birds and bees,
As on that Sabbath, underneath the trees
We strayed among the tombs, and stripped away
The vines from these old granites, cold and gray--
And yet, indeed, not grim enough were they
To stay our kisses, smiles and ecstacies,
Or closer voice-lost vows and rhapsodies.
Has she forgotten--that the May has won
Its promise?--that the bird-songs from the tree
Are sprayed above the grasses as the sun
Might jar the dazzling dew down showeringly?
Has she forgotten life--love--everyone--
Has she forgotten me--forgotten me?
II.
Low, low down in the violets I press
My lips and whisper to her. Does she hear,
And yet hold silence, though I call her dear,
Just as of old, save for the tearfulness
Of the clenched eyes, and the soul's vast distress?
Has she forgotten thus the old caress
That made our breath a quickened atmosphere
That failed nigh unto swooning with the sheer
Delight? Mine arms clutch now this earthen heap
Sodden with tears that flow on ceaselessly
As autumn rains the long, long, long nights weep
In memory of days that used to be,--
Has she forgotten these? And, in her sleep,
Has she forgotten me--forgotten me?
III.
To-night, against my pillow, with shut eyes,
I mean to weld our faces--through the dense
Incalculable darkness make pretense
That she has risen from her reveries
To mate her dreams with mine in marriages
Of mellow palms, smooth faces, and tense ease
Of every longing nerve of indolence,--
Lift from the grave her quiet lips, and stun
My senses with her kisses--drawl the glee
Of her glad mouth, full blithe and tenderly,
Across mine own, forgetful if is done
The old love's awful dawn-time when said we,
'To-day is ours!'.... Ah, Heaven! can it be
She has forgotten me--forgotten me!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Walk By
ock and roll!
she walked down to the store at 8
the devil walks with her and he thinks shes great
when he looked at me i dont know wat i saw
i think hes trying to make me his son in law
when she walked by
walked by
walked by
she walked on by
walked by
walked by
walked by
she walked on by
egos fly and she walks by
she caught my eye on october ninth
thats 22 days before halloween
how did i know shed be my evil queen
when she walked by
walked by
walked by
she walked on by
walked by
walked by
walked by
she walked on by
my mother warned me against girls like you
she said stay away from them son you know they arent true
all there gonna do is put you under their spell
and when your going down your going straight to hell
walk by
walk by
walk by
im gonna walk on by
walk by
walk by
walk by
im gonna walk on by
walk on by
walk on by
walk on by
walk on by
song performed by by Good Charlotte from Good Charlotte
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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By The Fireside : The Open Window
The old house by the lindens
Stood silent in the shade,
And on the gravelled pathway
The light and shadow played.
I saw the nursery windows
Wide open to the air;
But the faces of the children,
They were no longer there.
The large Newfoundland house-dog
Was standing by the door;
He looked for his little playmates,
Who would return no more.
They walked not under the lindens,
They played not in the hall;
But shadow, and silence, and sadness
Were hanging over all.
The birds sang in the branches,
With sweet, familiar tone;
But the voices of the children
Will be heard in dreams alone!
And the boy that walked beside me,
He could not understand
Why closer in mine, ah! closer,
I pressed his warm, soft hand!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Lines
I 'm ashamed,--that 's the fact,--it 's a pitiful case,--
Won't any kind classmate get up in my place?
Just remember how often I've risen before,--
I blush as I straighten my legs on the floor!
There are stories, once pleasing, too many times told,--
There are beauties once charming, too fearfully old,--
There are voices we've heard till we know them so well,
Though they talked for an hour they'd have nothing to tell.
Yet, Classmates! Friends! Brothers! Dear blessed old boys!
Made one by a lifetime of sorrows and joys,
What lips have such sounds as the poorest of these,
Though honeyed, like Plato's, by musical bees?
What voice is so sweet and what greeting so dear
As the simple, warm welcome that waits for us here?
The love of our boyhood still breathes in its tone,
And our hearts throb the answer, 'He's one of our own!'
Nay! count not our numbers; some sixty we know,
But these are above, and those under the snow;
And thoughts are still mingled wherever we meet
For those we remember with those that we greet.
We have rolled on life's journey,--how fast and how far!
One round of humanity's many-wheeled car,
But up-hill and down-hill, through rattle and rub,
Old, true Twenty-niners! we've stuck to our hub!
While a brain lives to think, or a bosom to feel,
We will cling to it still like the spokes of a wheel!
And age, as it chills us, shall fasten the tire
That youth fitted round in his circle of fire!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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