Evening primrose…
Happy the hour, between
Night and death
The pause, taken:
Too a single living, breath...
Here I'll open my breast
Upon a moths, calling…
Like an evening primrose.
Where sacramental wings
Consecrate!
The first-dewy-lit, morning…
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Related quotes
Evening Primrose
When once the sun sinks in the west,
And dewdrops pearl the evening's breast;
Almost as pale as moonbeams are,
Or its companionable star,
The evening primrose opes anew
Its delicate blossoms to the dew;
And, hermit-like, shunning the light,
Wastes its fair bloom upon the night,
Who, blindfold to its fond caresses,
Knows not the beauty it possesses;
Thus it blooms on while night is by;
When day looks out with open eye,
Bashed at the gaze it cannot shun,
It faints and withers and is gone.
poem by John Clare
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Evening Song
WHEN all the weary flowers,
Worn out with sunlit hours,
Droop o'er the garden beds
Their little sleepy heads,
The dewy dusk on quiet wings comes stealing;
And, as the night descends,
The shadows troop like friends
To bring them healing.
So, weary of the light
Of life too full and bright,
We long for night to fall
To wrap us from it all;
Then death on dewy wings draws near and holds us,
And like a kind friend come
To children far from home,
With love enfolds us.
But when the night is done,
Fresh to the morning sun,
Their little faces yet
With night's sweet dewdrops wet,
The flowers awake to the new day's new graces;
And we, ah! shall we too
Turn to the daydawn new
Our tear-wet faces?
poem by Edith Nesbit
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I Got The Sun In The Morning
Taking stock of what I have and what I haven't
What do I find?
The things I got will keep me satisfied
Checking up on what I have and what I haven't
What do I find?
A healthy balance on the credit side
Got no diamond
Got no pearl
Still I think I'm a lucky girl
I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night
I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night
Got no mansion
Got no yacht
Still I'm happy with what I got
I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night
I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night
Sunshine
Gives me a lovely day
Moonlight
Gives me the Milky Way
Got no checkbooks
Got no banks
Still I'd like to express my thanks
I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night
I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night
And with the sun in the morning
And the moon in the evening
I'm all right
[2]
Got no mansion
Got no yacht
Still I'm happy with what I got
I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night
I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night
Got no silver
Got no gold
What I got can't be bought or sold
I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night
I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night
Sunshine
Gives me a lovely day
Moonlight
Gives me the Milky Way
Got no checkbooks
Got no banks
Still I'd like to express my thanks
I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night
And with the sun in the morning
And the moon in the evening
I'm all right
[3]
Sunshine
Gives me a lovely day
Moonlight
Gives me the Milky Way
Got no heirlooms
For my kin
Made no will but when I cash in
I leave the sun in the morning and the moon at night
And with the sun in the morning
And the moon in the evening they're all right
song performed by by Irving Berlin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When I Heard At The Close Of The Day
WHEN I heard at the close of the day how my name had been receiv'd
with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night
for me that follow'd;
And else, when I carous'd, or when my plans were accomplish'd, still
I was not happy;
But the day when I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health,
refresh'd, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,
When I saw the full moon in the west grow pale and disappear in the
morning light,
When I wander'd alone over the beach, and undressing, bathed,
laughing with the cool waters, and saw the sun rise,
And when I thought how my dear friend, my lover, was on his way
coming, O then I was happy;
O then each breath tasted sweeter--and all that day my food nourish'd
me more--and the beautiful day pass'd well,
And the next came with equal joy--and with the next, at evening, came
my friend;
And that night, while all was still, I heard the waters roll slowly
continually up the shores,
I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands, as directed to
me, whispering, to congratulate me, 10
For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in
the cool night,
In the stillness, in the autumn moonbeams, his face was inclined
toward me,
And his arm lay lightly around my breast--and that night I was happy.
poem by Walt Whitman
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When You Are Not Surprised
When you are not surprised, not surprised,
nor leap in imagination from sunlight into shadow
or from shadow into sunlight
suiting the color of fright or delight
to the bewildering circumstance
when you are no longer surprised
by the quiet or fury of daybreak
the stormy uprush of the sun’s rage
over the edges of torn trees
torrents of living and dying flung
upward and outward inward and downward to space
or else
peace peace peace peace
the wood-thrush speaking his holy holy
far hidden in the forest of the mind
while slowly
the limbs of light unwind
and the world’s surface dreams again of night
as the center dreams of light
when you are not surprised
by breath and breath and breath
the first unconscious morning breath
the tap of the bird’s beak on the pane
and do not cry out come again
blest blest that you are come again
o light o sound o voice of bird o light
and memory too o memory blest
and curst with the debts of yesterday
that would not stay, or stay
when you are not surprised
by death and death and death
death of the bee in the daffodil
death of color in the child’s cheek
on the young mother’s breast
death of sense of touch of sight
death of delight
and the inward death the inward turning night
when the heart hardens itself with hate and indifference
for hated self and beloved not-self
when you are not surprised
by wheel’s turn or turn of season
the winged and orbed chariot tilt of time
the halcyon pause, the blue caesura of spring
and solar rhyme
woven into the divinely remembered nest
by the dark-eyed love in the oriole’s breast
and the tides of space that ring the heart
while still, while still, the wave of the invisible world
breaks into consciousness in the mind of god
then welcome death and be by death benignly welcomed
and join again in the ceaseless know-nothing
from which you awoke to the first surprise.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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The Heart Of The Woman
O WHAT to me the little room
That was brimmed up with prayer and rest;
He bade me out into the gloom,
And my breast lies upon his breast.
O what to me my mother's care,
The house where I was safe and warm;
The shadowy blossom of my hair
Will hide us from the bitter storm.
O hiding hair and dewy eyes,
I am no more with life and death,
My heart upon his warm heart lies,
My breath is mixed into his breath.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Hymn 81
A song for morning or evening.
Lam. 3:23; Isa. 45:7.
God, how endless is thy love!
Thy gifts are every evening new;
And morning mercies from above
Gently distill like early dew.
Thou spread'st the curtains of the night,
Great guardian of my sleeping hours;
Thy sovereign word restores the light,
And quickens all my drowsy powers.
I yield my powers to thy command,
To thee I consecrate my days;
Perpetual blessings from thine hand
Demand perpetual songs of praise.
poem by Isaac Watts
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You speak to me and say
Cherish
The brilliance of the day,
Come what may
The warmth descending from our sun
Which coddles each and everyone
The breath of life on this planet earth
Until our death, from our inconsequential birth
Thank you, Oh great uncaused first cause,
Whoever you are, wherever you may be,
Because
I am so glad to be around
To hear each and every sound
See each and every sight
Experience every single day and every single night
To breathe each and every breath
From my birth until my death
And waste not one single second
Of your great gift - this is my bond.
poem by Terry Brewer
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Elegy to the Old Man Hokuju
You left in the morning, at evening my heart is in a
thousand pieces.
Why is it so far away?
Thinking of you, I go up on the hill and wander.
Around the hill, why is it such a sadness?
Dandelions yellow and shepherds-purse blooming white --
not anyone to look at them.
I hear a pheasant, calling and calling fervently.
Once a friend was there across the river, living.
Ghostly smoke rises and fades away with a west wind
strong in fields of small bamboo grasses and reedy fields.
Nowhere to leave for.
Once a friend was there across the river, living, but today
not even a bird sings a song.
You left in the morning, at evening my heart is in a
thousand pieces.
Why is it so far away?
In my grass hut by the Amida image I light no candle,
offer no flowers, and only sit here alone.
This evening, how invaluable it is.
Priest Buson
with a thousand bowings
poem by Yosa Buson
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A Rose-Bud By My Early Walk
A Rose-Bud By My Early Walk
A rose-bud, by my early walk
Adown a corn-enclosèd bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,
In a' its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head,
It scents the early morning.
Within the bush her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest;
The dew sat chilly on her breast,
Sae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd,
Awauk the early morning.
So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
On trembling string or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care
That tents thy early morning!
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parent's evening ray
That watch'd thy early morning!
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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To Roses in the Bosom of Castara
YE blushing virgins happy are
In the chaste nunnery of her breasts--
For he'd profane so chaste a fair,
Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.
Transplanted thus how bright ye grow!
How rich a perfume do ye yield!
In some close garden cowslips so
Are sweeter than i' th' open field.
In those white cloisters live secure
From the rude blasts of wanton breath!--
Each hour more innocent and pure,
Till you shall wither into death.
Then that which living gave you room,
Your glorious sepulchre shall be.
There wants no marble for a tomb
Whose breast hath marble been to me.
poem by William Habington
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The Earth Laments for Day
THERE’S music wafting on the air,
The evening winds are sighing
Among the trees—and yonder stream
Is mournfully replying,
Lamenting loud the sunny light
That in the west is dying.
The moon is rising o’er the hill,
Her slanting rays are creeping
Where Nature lies profoundly still
In happy quiet sleeping,
And resting on her face, they’ll find
The earth is wet with weeping.
She mourneth for the lovely day,
Now deep in darkness shaded;
She sheds the dewy tear because
Of morning’s mantle faded;
She misses from her breast the garb
In which the moon array’d it.
The evening queen will strive in vain
To break the spell which bound her;
A million stars can never throw
Departed warmth around her;
They all must pass away and leave
The earth as they had found her.
But why should gentle Nature weep
That night has overtaken
The wearied world that needed sleep,
Refreshed to re-awaken,
So richer light might burst around,
The gloomy shadows breaking?
Oh, can she not from yonder sky
That gleams above her, borrow
A single ray, or find a way
To check the tear of sorrow?
A beam of hope would last her till
The dawning of to-morrow.
poem by Henry Kendall
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Sonnet: On seeing Miss Helen Maria Williams weep at a tale of distress
She wept.--Life's purple tide began to flow
In languid streams through every thrilling vein;
Dim were my swimming eyes--my pulse beat slow,
And my full heart was swell'd to dear delicious pain.
Life left my loaded heart, and closing eye;
A sigh recall'd the wanderer to my breast;
Dear was the pause of life, and dear the sigh
That call'd the wanderer home, and home to rest.
That tear proclaims--in thee each virtue dwells,
And bright will shine in misery's midnight hour;
As the soft star of dewy evening tells
What radiant fires were drown'd by day's malignant pow'r,
That only wait the darkness of the night
To cheer the wand'ring wretch with hospitable light.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Not This Time Will You Win
as the icy cold chill seems to jump down my spine
then yet up again back to my cooling heart that barley beats
no matter how hard I breath it stops for yet another second
or was that one two I cant tell any more
I smell the sour sent of my own body failing
though I’m not in pain I wish I could
I wish I could feel something other then cold and tired
not this time will you win
I shall be the one calling out victory not you
not this time
I see everyone crying please will you all stop crying
my dear husband don’t shed one more tear I can say I love you honey I really can see
I open my mouth but all that comes out of the dry and almost voiceless whole is a quiet mumble
similar to what a tired baby makes before learning to speak
Ethan my baby brother I hate seeing you cry please don’t cry
I love you so much I’m going to sleep but I’ll be up in an hour
I close my eyes as I drift off to sleep
I hear the two people I care about the most loose all of their control
a little less then an hour I feel my husband softly kiss my lips
then said I love you baby please wake up
then as I open my eyes I see the two people that I love more then my own life crying happy tears
Ethan is rushing to get the others the first thing that I say is
I told you I would be the one calling out victory not you
not this time death for this time you are the true loser not me
poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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Moths
The streetlight on the corner
in that cornered spot
has moths all around it
even though it's hot.
I see it from my window.
It flickers now and then.
The moths circle further away
but then they're back again.
What will those poor moths do
if that light goes out?
If I see it happen
I'll go outside and shout.
'Hey moths come over here.
I'll turn my porch light on.'
Then I can watch you circle once more
until the night is gone.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Overwhelming World Suite
Written by gerry beckley, 1998
Found on human nature.
[overwhelming world]
Overwhelming world tied up in a knot
Anything you ask is everything i've got
I can't let go
It's all you need
It's all i know
Tiny little girl wakens in the night
Was it just a dream, will she be alright
It's hard to say
There's so much more
Beyond her door
Hidden in the heart buried in the soul
Everybody's wondering if where they are going, they're going alone
Carried on the wind
Up above the stars alone
A spark from a fire ignited a long time ago
[come back]
Every single moment
Every waking hour
I can see your beauty
Like an open flower
Just like a flower
Won't you come back, come back to me
Won't you come back, come back to me
There with your head in your hands
I sware that you don't understand
That you and i were meant to be
I can feel you breathing
As you lay beside me
Nothing but a memory
That you can't deny me
You can't deny me
Every single moment
Every waking hour
I can feel your beauty
Like an open flower
Just like a flower
Won't you come back, come back to me
Won't you come back, come back to me
[barstow]
Barstow, barstow
Meet you in the morning
Barstow, barstow
As the day is dawning
Sunrise out on the freeway in the morning
Meeting you as the day is dawning
Counting the minutes to go
Barstow (barstow), barstow
Showcase of the southland
Barstow (barstow), barstow
Living hand to mouth and
Somewhere on the horizon in the distance
Seeing you there with no resistance
Counting the seconds to go
Sunrise out on the freeway in the morning
Meeting you as the day is dawning
Counting the seconds to go
song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Happy Hour
Its happy hour again
I think I might be happy if I wasnt out with them
And theyre happy its a lovely place to be
Happy that the fire is real the barman is a she
Where the haircuts smile
And the meaning of style
Is a night out with the bass
Where you win or you lose
And its them who choose
And if you dont win then youve lost
What a good place to be
Dont believe it
cause they speak a different language
And its never really happened to me
{its happy hour again}
Dont believe it
cause they speak a different language
And its never really happened to me
{its happy hour again}
Its another night out with the boss
Following in footsteps overgrown with moss
And they tell me that women grow on trees
And if you catch them right they will land upon their knees
Where they open all their wallets
And they close all their minds
And they love to buy you all a drink
And then we ask all the questions
And you take all your clothes off
And go back to the kitchen sink
song performed by by Housemartins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tis Breath, Then...
tis breath, then...
wrought with infinite longing,
that called light from darkness,
and being from non-being.
that, spent as wind,
calling forth waves from oceans,
calling forth land from water,
blowing dry and forming.
tis breath, then...
calling male and female to join.
calling trees and mountains to tangle.
defining hill and valley,
both far and near.
calling forth fire from imagination,
calling thought from inertness.
calling music from stillness.
tis breath, then...
calling tribe unto tribe.
creating gods from reflection.
calling souls from dead bones,
naming names, defining eternity,
calling forth desire, hunger, and wonder.
calling forth construction and ambition...
calling forth ego!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sweet Love, Sweet Thorn, When Lightly To My Heart
Sweet love, sweet thorn, when lightly to my heart
I took your thrust, whereby I since am slain,
And lie disheveled in the grass apart,
A sodden thing bedrenched by tears and rain,
While rainy evening drips to misty night,
And misty night to cloudy morning clears,
And clouds disperse across the gathering light,
And birds grow noisy, and the sun appears
Had I bethought me then, sweet love, sweet thorn,
How sharp an anguish even at the best,
When all's requited and the future sworn,
The happy Hour can leave within the breast,
I had not so come running at the call
Of one whoe loves me little, if at all.
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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If Death Is Kind
Perhaps if Death is kind, and there can be returning,
We will come back to earth some fragrant night,
And take these lanes to find the sea, and bending
Breathe the same honeysuckle, low and white.
We will come down at night to these resounding beaches
And the long gentle thunder of the sea,
Here for a single hour in the wide starlight
We shall be happy, for the dead are free.
poem by Sara Teasdale
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