For: Edith Södergran
Inscribed … In red granite
As clearer thought, as…
Anything—Scandinavian,
Or any other rests upon a grey lawn.
Anon, it circles a silent grave!
Where once stood a blue forest
A single pine tree; still remains…
And, etched within, it's timeless rings.
Her poems 'Love & solitude' refrains…
Narrow is my circle and the ring of my thoughts
Go round my finger.
This is the scorned, nightingales, bark to sing…
But, laughing-back from her bluest heights
A pine lark road in heaven is ringed.
Inscribed … In red granite
'Here - four of her last four lines'.
See here lies eternity's shore,
Here the stream rushes by,
And death plays in the bushes
The same simple melody.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Related quotes
Eternity Ring
Poetic Style - Acrostic:
Eagerly he rushes down to the town
The jewellery store is where he is bound
Eternity's a word, very deep in his mind...
Rapturous delight of the lasting kind.
Never before had he felt quite like this.
Immediate action brought thoughts of bliss.
To place an eternity ring on her finger
Young love and true love ever would linger.
Resting on the laurel 'love lasts forever,
In sickness or health, love is a treasure'
Now was the time for angels to sing
Gentle love songs to an Eternity Ring.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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Heart O' The North
And when I come to the dim trail-end,
I who have been Life's rover,
This is all I would ask, my friend,
Over and over and over:
A little space on a stony hill
With never another near me,
Sky o' the North that's vast and still,
With a single star to cheer me;
Star that gleams on a moss-grey stone
Graven by those who love me --
There would I lie alone, alone,
With a single pine above me;
Pine that the north wind whinneys through --
Oh, I have been Life's lover!
But there I'd lie and listen to
Eternity passing over.
poem by Robert William Service
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On Lake Temiscamingue
A single dreary elm, that stands between
The sombre forest and the wan-lit lake,
Halves with its slim gray stem and pendent green
The shadowed point. Beyond it without break
Bold brows of pine-topped granite bend away,
Far to the southward, fading off in grand
Soft folds of looming purple. Cool and gray,
The point runs out, a blade of thinnest sand.
Two rivers meet beyond it: wild and clear,
Their deepening thunder breaks upon the ear-
The one descending from its forest home
By many an eddied pool and murmuring fall-
The other cloven through the mountain wall,
A race of tumbled rocks, a road of foam.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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I Was On Cross Road!
Strange I am,
I think different,
Whatever things,
I like not,
liked by others,
whatever I like,
Not liked by others!
I opened my heart,
Others then felt bad.
Open heart of them,
Looked ugly to me!
Whenever I laugh,
They felt as cough,
But for my every cough,
They enjoyed their laugh,
My every tears
they enjoyed,
My enjoyment,
Made them hard.
I loved life and them,
They live forgetting love!
So I was at cross road,
What to do and
what not to do!
I stood where,
Four roads met,
Life -was my pet
How can I set?
One road lead to town
Another to mountain,
Third one to forest,
Fourth, where dead rest!
A piece of rope,
Or loss of hope,
I stood at by a yard,
Away from road to graveyard!
I thought of solitude
haunting in multitude,
I stood at road to forest,
Where I may get some rest
Looked at the mountain,
I thought my life can sustain,
like that lonely mountain
it became inspiring fountain!
I took the way to town,
Removed masks of clown,
I stood there as lovely tree,
I kicked off idea of other three!
I built a house by side of the road,
My mind became clean and broad,
I gazed at passers on street,
My thought really is treat,
Fed of pains and sorrow,
Shed off all thoughts narrow,
Fed birds and animals and men,
Started using book and pen!
I felt solitude everywhere
And carried to anywhere,
Worked like a horse or ox
Removed all that were hoax!
No pain, no strain, no stain of guilt!
Life full of rain and green
Life full of love and compassion
Happiness and bliss I felt!
Alone in company of all;
With all, when I am alone
Escaped the great fall
Gained lost paradise on own!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Sonnet XVII. From The Thirteenth Cantata Of Metastasio
ON thy grey bark, in witness of my flame,
I carve Miranda's cypher--Beauteous tree!
Graced with the lovely letters of her name,
Henceforth be sacred to my love and me!
Though the tall elm, the oak, and darker pine,
With broader arms, may noon's fierce ardours break,
To shelter me, and her I love, be thine;
And thine to see her smile and hear her speak.
No bird, ill-omen'd, round thy graceful head
Shall clamour harsh, or wave his heavy wing,
But fern and flowers arise beneath thy shade.
Where the wild bees their lullabies shall sing.
And in thy boughs the murmuring Ring-dove rest;
And there the Nightingale shall build her nest.
poem by Charlotte Smith
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Circles
Friends come and friends go
As I go round and round in circles
Love someone change your mind
Decide he was a swine
As you go round and round in circles
He who knows does not speak
He who speaks does not know
And I go round in circles
Dislike someone and will not bend
Later they may become your best friend
As life it goes around in circles
He who knows does not speak
He who speaks does not know
And I go round in circles
Soul takes on a body with each birth we make our date
With life and death along the road the soul reincarnates
The show goes round and round in circles
When loss and gain and up and down
Becomes the same, then we stop going in circles
Round and round in circles
song performed by by George Harrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Favorite Tree
My Favorite Tree
by Margaret Carlisle
Deep in the forest I searched for a tree,
A special one which most appealed to me.
I looked around and suddenly found,
A beautiful pine, that was round
At the bottom and pointed on top,
Its branches knew just when to stop,
To form that classic Christmas-tree-look,
It's beauty, its bark, its fragrance, it took
My senses on a pleasure cruise,
And its memory I shall never lose.
poem by Margaret Carlisle
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A Pine Tree in My House
A tree that grows in my garden
A robust pine tree
Stands big and Proud
Sinks its roots deeply into the Earth
A pine tree in my house
Spreads its seeds every where
Sheds needles all over
Drops big cones onto my lawn
Survives within the sun
Ambles forth in all direction s with each gust of wind
Bends over the roaring storm
Tosses its branches in magnificent enthusiasm
Attracts the colors of a million sunsets into its needles leaves
Sways gracefully with the wind
Whispers with the blowing breeze
Cuddles joyfully with the changing seasons
Tries to reach the sky!
Looks beautiful in a peaceful state,
Is wise in its silence
Grows lush in all seasons
Allows the birds to perch and soar
Never holds them back
Never pines for their return when they fly away
If our hearts were like pine trees
We would have no apprehension in our minds
No one would wish to bring us down
No one would wake us up at night
A pine tree in my house
I Call it the tree of paradise
What I’ve got, I know it matters
For paradise, I wish to pave the way!
poem by Dr Shamim ali
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Lone Pine
Lone Pine! Lone Pine! Our hearts are numbly aching
For those who come no more,
Our boys who sleep the sleep that knows no waking,
Besides the Dardan’s shore.
Through all the years, with glory sad and sombre,
Their names will deathless shine;
No bugle call can wake them from their slumber:
Lone Pine! Lone Pine!
They did not quail, they did not pause or ponder,
They counted not the odds;
The order came, the foe were waiting yonder,
The rest was with the gods.
Forth from their trenches at the signal leaping,
They charged the Turkish line,
And death charged too, a royal harvest reaping,
Lone Pine! Lone Pine!
Nought could withstand that onrush, backward
driven,
The foemen broke and fled.
poem by Edward Harrington
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The Stringy-Bark Tree
There's the whitebox and pine on the ridges afar,
Where the iron-bark, blue-gum, and peppermint are;
There is many another, but dearest to me,
And the king of them all was the stringy-bark tree.
Then of stringy-bark slabs were the walls of the hut,
And from stringy-bark saplings the rafters were cut;
And the roof that long sheltered my brothers and me
Was of broad sheets of bark from the stringy-bark tree.
And when sawn-timber homes were built out in the West,
Then for walls and for ceilings its wood was the best;
And for shingles and palings to last while men be,
There was nothing on earth like the stringy-bark tree.
Far up the long gullies the timber-trucks went,
Over tracks that seemed hopeless, by bark hut and tent;
And the gaunt timber-finder, who rode at his ease,
Led them on to a gully of stringy-bark trees.
Now still from the ridges, by ways that are dark,
Come the shingles and palings they call stringy-bark;
Though you ride through long gullies a twelve months you’ll see
But the old whitened stumps of the stringy-bark tree.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Up On Helderberg Hill In A Vast Pine Forest
Up on Helderberg hill in a vast pine forest,
the wind gently rushes through the trees,
the scent of pine is everywhere about me,
while far beneath at the Strand beach
waves are forever braking against the shore,
a far off church bell rings somewhat solitary,
as the twilight falls all over us with silver,
with a magical garment that covers everything
and you look lovely, somewhat like a toy doll
with stars twinkling with twilight in your eyes,
in you my desire flames forever, rivers flow deep
while you send it where and when you will
aim glances, smiles and touching soft lips
while you are drawing all of my arrows,
silences have a own painful meaning
but our embraces, kisses and touch do anchor
in something much darker and deeper
than the coming of this approaching night,
while you kiss me breathless like the wind
that is dying, draw me tenderly in to the grass.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Song from Aella
O SING unto my roundelay,
O drop the briny tear with me;
Dance no more at holyday,
Like a running river be:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Black his cryne as the winter night,
White his rode as the summer snow,
Red his face as the morning light,
Cole he lies in the grave below:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought can be,
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the brier'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares, as they go:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud:
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Here upon my true-love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid;
Not one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
With my hands I'll dent the briers
Round his holy corse to gre:
Ouph and fairy, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heartès blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
poem by Thomas Chatterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Barely Disfigured
Adieu Tristesse
Bonjour Tristesse
Farewell Sadness
Hello Sadness
You are inscribed in the lines on the ceiling
You are inscribed in the eyes that I love
You are not poverty absolutely
Since the poorest of lips denounce you
Ah with a smile
Bonjour Tristesse
Love of kind bodies
Power of love
From which kindness rises
Like a bodiless monster
Unattached head
Sadness beautiful face.
poem by Paul Eluard
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Jutting
Jutting!
Like projectiles upward,
To reach.
These granite slabs.
Fading.
Many with diminished descriptions.
And many more standing,
With non-exisiting to read...
Once carefully etched,
Epitaphs.
Jutting upward in row upon row,
To lay surrounded by manicured grass.
Fenced within cemetery quietness,
As if to appease the dead...
In a foreverlasting sleep and unknown.
Bleached these slabs are from Sun,
And the rain that comes...
To wash away that which had been engraved,
On the headstones of those death has silenced.
And I walk along to wonder,
Who the many forgotten were.
Those whose ashes have long ago turn to dust.
Those who once lived.
Now below the ground...
Hushed!
Can their spirits see me pass?
Do they know I walk to wonder of their past?
Are they aware like I am...
That life is not to live to last?
They must.
Can their spirits see me pass,
And laugh to find my thoughts amusing?
Or have their spirits long gone,
To adapt and be freed from life's trappings?
Heartaches. Sorrows. Physical pain...
And having no cash.
I pass and 'feel' their spirits laughing.
Jutting!
Like projectiles upward,
To reach.
These granite slabs.
Fading.
Many with diminished descriptions.
And many more standing,
With non-exisiting to read...
Once carefully etched,
Epitaphs.
And here I am in the moment,
Living...
To witness this.
And to wonder.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Pine Forest Of The Cascine Near Pisa
Dearest, best and brightest,
Come away,
To the woods and to the fields!
Dearer than this fairest day
Which, like thee to those in sorrow,
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
To the rough Year just awake
In its cradle in the brake.
The eldest of the Hours of Spring,
Into the Winter wandering,
Looks upon the leafless wood,
And the banks all bare and rude;
Found, it seems, this halcyon Morn
In February’s bosom born,
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,
Kissed the cold forehead of the Earth,
And smiled upon the silent sea,
And bade the frozen streams be free;
And waked to music all the fountains,
And breathed upon the rigid mountains,
And made the wintry world appear
Like one on whom thou smilest, Dear.
Radiant Sister of the Day,
Awake! arise! and come away!
To the wild woods and the plains,
To the pools where winter rains
Image all the roof of leaves,
Where the pine its garland weaves
Sapless, gray, and ivy dun
Round stems that never kiss the sun--
To the sandhills of the sea,
Where the earliest violets be.
Now the last day of many days,
All beautiful and bright as thou,
The loveliest and the last, is dead,
Rise, Memory, and write its praise!
And do thy wonted work and trace
The epitaph of glory fled;
For now the Earth has changed its face,
A frown is on the Heaven’s brow.
We wandered to the Pine Forest
That skirts the Ocean's foam,
The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.
The whispering waves were half asleep,
The clouds were gone to play,
And on the woods, and on the deep
The smile of Heaven lay.
It seemed as if the day were one
Sent from beyond the skies,
Which shed to earth above the sun
A light of Paradise.
We paused amid the pines that stood,
The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
With stems like serpents interlaced.
How calm it was--the silence there
By such a chain was bound,
That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller by her sound
The inviolable quietness;
The breath of peace we drew
With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew.
It seemed that from the remotest seat
Of the white mountain's waste
To the bright flower beneath our feet,
A magic circle traced;--
A spirit interfused around,
A thinking, silent life;
To momentary peace it bound
Our mortal nature’s strife;--
And still, it seemed, the centre of
The magic circle there,
Was one whose being filled with love
The breathless atmosphere.
Were not the crocuses that grew
Under that ilex-tree
As beautiful in scent and hue
As ever fed the bee?
We stood beneath the pools that lie
Under the forest bough,
And each seemed like a sky
Gulfed in a world below;
A purple firmament of light
Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night,
And clearer than the day—
In which the massy forests grew
As in the upper air,
More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any waving there.
Like one beloved the scene had lent
To the dark water's breast
Its every leaf and lineament
With that clear truth expressed;
There lay far glades and neighbouring lawn,
And through the dark green crowd
The white sun twinkling like the dawn
Under a speckled cloud.
Sweet views, which in our world above
Can never well be seen,
Were imaged by the water's love
Of that fair forest green.
And all was interfused beneath
With an Elysian air,
An atmosphere without a breath,
A silence sleeping there.
Until a wandering wind crept by,
Like an unwelcome thought,
Which from my mind's too faithful eye
Blots thy bright image out.
For thou art good and dear and kind,
The forest ever green,
But less of peace in S---'s mind,
Than calm in waters, seen.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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One Too Many Times
She was the golden summer wine
And now shes black and blue resigned
He took advantage like the spider, helpless
One too many times
You had to go ahead and sing
You had to steal that diamond ring
Upon the headstone so inscribed, they cried
One too many times
We are so human, were so small
Were always coming back for more
A second helping third and fourth, its gone
One too many times
One too many times
song performed by by Midnight Oil
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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After A Lecture On Wordsworth
COME, spread your wings, as I spread mine,
And leave the crowded hall
For where the eyes of twilight shine
O'er evening's western wall.
These are the pleasant Berkshire hills,
Each with its leafy crown;
Hark! from their sides a thousand rills
Come singing sweetly down.
A thousand rills; they leap and shine,
Strained through the shadowy nooks,
Till, clasped in many a gathering twine,
They swell a hundred brooks.
A hundred brooks, and still they run
With ripple, shade, and gleam,
Till, clustering all their braids in one,
They flow a single stream.
A bracelet spun from mountain mist,
A silvery sash unwound,
With ox-bow curve and sinuous twist
It writhes to reach the Sound.
This is my bark,--a pygmy's ship;
Beneath a child it rolls;
Fear not,--one body makes it dip,
But not a thousand souls.
Float we the grassy banks between;
Without an oar we glide;
The meadows, drest in living green,
Unroll on either side.
Come, take the book we love so well,
And let us read and dream
We see whate'er its pages tell,
And sail an English stream.
Up to the clouds the lark has sprung,
Still trilling as he flies;
The linnet sings as there he sung;
The unseen cuckoo cries,
And daisies strew the banks along,
And yellow kingcups shine,
With cowslips, and a primrose throng,
And humble celandine.
Ah foolish dream! when Nature nursed
Her daughter in the West,
The fount was drained that opened first;
She bared her other breast.
On the young planet's orient shore
Her morning hand she tried;
Then turned the broad medallion o'er
And stamped the sunset side.
Take what she gives, her pine's tall stem,
Her elm with hanging spray;
She wears her mountain diadem
Still in her own proud way.
Look on the forests' ancient kings,
The hemlock's towering pride
Yon trunk had thrice a hundred rings,
And fell before it died.
Nor think that Nature saves her bloom
And slights our grassy plain;
For us she wears her court costume,--
Look on its broidered train;
The lily with the sprinkled dots,
Brands of the noontide beam;
The cardinal, and the blood-red spots,
Its double in the stream,
As if some wounded eagle's breast,
Slow throbbing o'er the plain,
Had left its airy path impressed
In drops of scarlet rain.
And hark! and hark! the woodland rings;
There thrilled the thrush's soul;
And look! that flash of flamy wings,--
The fire-plumed oriole!
Above, the hen-hawk swims and swoops,
Flung from the bright, blue sky;
Below, the robin hops, and whoops
His piercing, Indian cry.
Beauty runs virgin in the woods
Robed in her rustic green,
And oft a longing thought intrudes,
As if we might have seen.
Her every finger's every joint
Ringed with some golden line,
Poet whom Nature did anoint
Had our wild home been thine.
Yet think not so; Old England's blood
Runs warm in English veins;
But wafted o'er the icy flood
Its better life remains.
Our children know each wildwood smell,
The bayberry and the fern,
The man who does not know them well
Is all too old to learn.
Be patient! On the breathing page
Still pants our hurried past;
Pilgrim and soldier, saint and sage,
The poet comes the last!
Though still the lark-voiced matins ring
The world has known so long;
The wood-thrush of the West shall sing
Earth's last sweet even-song!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Smokey Mountain Boy
(words & music by rosenblatt - milrose)
Im just a smokey mountain boy
Come back to the hills I love
Where the tops of pine all bend in the wind
And the deep blue sky above
The closer and closer I get to home
The more excited I am
Those were the mornings Id roll out of bed
Start the day off with a hot corn bread
Smothered in huckleberry jam
Im just a smokey mountain boy
Come back to the hills I love
Where the tops of pine all bend in the wind
And the deep blue sky above
I can almost hear the hounds running through the woods
Close on the trail of the hare
How I long to be with them following the hounds
A-huntin again
Gettin me a big old grizzly bear
Im just a smokey mountain boy
Come back to the hills I love
Where the tops of pine all bend in the wind
And the deep blue sky above
I traveled around and met lots of girls
No matter how many I see
I left some pretty ones behind
I know back home is where Ill find
The girl whose love is meant for me
Im just a smokey mountain boy
Come back to the hills I love
Where the tops of pine all bend in the wind
And the deep blue sky above
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Eater
The break of time,
at dawn,
a baby boy cries
under a tree of pine.
Around,
no other breath of man.
He cried long nights
loud, very loud.
Let's guess:
all the wilderness
could have no rest？！
They tried not to mind
the round eyes
noisy brat,
during the day time
loud, loud cries
also were no less..
But:
when the 6-th evening came
they all felt tired
and very sad,
depressed,
badly needed back
a silent time to rest
minds bodies and souls
..lost.. in one quest...
So they invoked
a public assembly
to discuss of how
to deal with 'it'
Some were afraid
he would disturb whole
peace of the entire Earth.
One said:
-Let him cry to death
another's take:
-But what if it takes
much longer time?
-Aahh! ! I already want to kill myself
please have mercy of my soul
stop that ugly voice
a huge Black Bear mumbled.
A Flower's bud:
-But I like his voice
to me like music sounds.
A Worm:
-mmm such a yummy smell
to me it rings
some bells.
-Stop it! To you
anything feels like food
What wouldn't you try to gulp on?
asked an old Fox.
-Guns! Bombs! Nuclear staff plastics
robots games and many more
answered the Worm...
-All right then,
said the Tree of Pine
-Let's make this child
to hunt those down,
on them to feed.
Of hunger he shall never
cry again and then
the good quiet times,
back we may have.
poem by Elena Sandu
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The Grey Road
A sun-flash on his mounting wing,
A wild note soaring high—
The lark is up, the minstrel king,
The poet of the sky.
To thrill, to sing of Youth and Spring
Those golden numbers flowed.
What message then
Has he for men
Who tread the long grey road?
Knee-deep in grass the cattle stand,
The river winds along,
And chants through sunny meadow land
A low mysterious song.
Ah! sunlit vale and lover’s tale
Youth’s day is quickly gone—
Past current-beat
And meadow-sweet
The grey road stretches on!
Grim bastions frowning down below—
And rising, tier on tier,
Sublime, and crowned with ageless snow
The awful peaks appear.
The heights belong unto the strong
Who scale, by crags untried,
The great cliffs face—
But at its base
The grey road turns aside!
No hope in Heaven, no minstrel strain,
No vales where summer shone
A leaden sky, a silent plain,
The grey road stretching on.
O Christ, who trod the thorny path,
And bore the bitter load,
Have mercy then
On weary men
Who tread the long grey road!
poem by George Essex Evans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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