En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Other Side of a Mirror

I sat before my glass one day,
And conjured up a vision bare,
Unlike the aspects glad and gay,
That erst were found reflected there -
The vision of a woman, wild
With more than womanly despair.
Her hair stood back on either side
A face bereft of loveliness.
It had no envy now to hide
What once no man on earth could guess.
It formed the thorny aureole
Of hard, unsanctified distress.

Her lips were open - not a sound
Came though the parted lines of red,
Whate'er it was, the hideous wound
In silence and secret bled.
No sigh relieved her speechless woe,
She had no voice to speak her dread.

And in her lurid eyes there shone
The dying flame of life's desire,
Made mad because its hope was gone,
And kindled at the leaping fire
Of jealousy and fierce revenge,
And strength that could not change nor tire.

Shade of a shadow in the glass,
O set the crystal surface free!
Pass - as the fairer visions pass -
Nor ever more return, to be
The ghost of a distracted hour,
That heard me whisper: - 'I am she!'

poem by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Heart of Glass

What would it take,
To make you believe?
My life's an open book.
My glass heart on my sleeve.

But it keeps getting broken,
And I keep getting hurt.
Your knife cuts very deep,
And you treat me like dirt.

My heart it has changed.
A new me was born.
He has given me strength,
And sewn what was torn.

My heart made of glass,
Now shattered and broke.
But again He does fix it,
And He gives me His yoke.

Then he carries my burden,
And takes my glass heart.
Gives it back to me mended.
So again I must start.

I'm here with my heart,
To give her once more.
And the heart made of glass,
She smashed on the floor.

And then He returns.
He gathered the shards.
I can't do it again.
The pain is too hard.

But he puts it together.
He makes me return.
I ask, “How many times more? ”
“Til her love you have earned.”

So back I do go,
Humble and meek.
To fight for my love.
My heart is so weak.

Here it is my love.
Please take my glass heart.
It is yours for the breaking.
You can break it apart.
She took it from me,
And held it so tight.
And she gave me a smile,
That shone very bright.

She gave me a kiss.
Then her heart I did get.
I had earned back her love.
I had paid back my debt

My heart made of glass,
Found the heart made of gold.
I am glad that I listened.
And did just what He told.

I am glad that He told me,
To fight for my friend.
Because Love conquers all,
And never will end.

poem by Ryan Lee Morris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Egoism.

Not as mine their thoughts who pass:
Each has his life's looking-glass
Limning therein the light and shade
His own entity has made.
I have my life's vision still
Coloured for me, good or ill,
And my point of view must be
But my own immortally.
Could I guess at theirs, or know
What shapes in their vision go.
Lift the veil by day and night
That's laid on another's light, —
They might with a fancy free
Get, too, at the gist of me,
And with a plebeian shout
Turn the Gods I worship out,
To be in a concourse lewd
Jeered at by the multitude,
While I with a reeling brain
Talked with Demons in the fane!

poem by Robert Crawford
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Fleurette

(The Wounded Canadian Speaks)

My leg? It's off at the knee.
Do I miss it? Well, some. You see
I've had it since I was born;
And lately a devilish corn.
(I rather chuckle with glee
To think how I've fooled that corn.)

But I'll hobble around all right.
It isn't that, it's my face.
Oh I know I'm a hideous sight,
Hardly a thing in place;
Sort of gargoyle, you'd say.
Nurse won't give me a glass,
But I see the folks as they pass
Shudder and turn away;
Turn away in distress . . .
Mirror enough, I guess.

I'm gay! You bet I AM gay;
But I wasn't a while ago.
If you'd seen me even to-day,
The darndest picture of woe,
With this Caliban mug of mine,
So ravaged and raw and red,
Turned to the wall -- in fine,
Wishing that I was dead. . . .
What has happened since then,
Since I lay with my face to the wall,
The most despairing of men?
Listen! I'll tell you all.

That poilu across the way,
With the shrapnel wound in his head,
Has a sister: she came to-day
To sit awhile by his bed.
All morning I heard him fret:
"Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?"

Then sudden, a joyous cry;
The tripping of little feet,
The softest, tenderest sigh,
A voice so fresh and sweet;
Clear as a silver bell,
Fresh as the morning dews:
"C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel!
Mon frère, comme je suis heureuse!"

So over the blanket's rim
I raised my terrible face,
And I saw -- how I envied him!
A girl of such delicate grace;
Sixteen, all laughter and love;
As gay as a linnet, and yet
As tenderly sweet as a dove;
Half woman, half child -- Fleurette.

Then I turned to the wall again.
(I was awfully blue, you see),
And I thought with a bitter pain:
"Such visions are not for me."
So there like a log I lay,
All hidden, I thought, from view,
When sudden I heard her say:
"Ah! Who is that malheureux?"
Then briefly I heard him tell
(However he came to know)
How I'd smothered a bomb that fell
Into the trench, and so
None of my men were hit,
Though it busted me up a bit.

Well, I didn't quiver an eye,
And he chattered and there she sat;
And I fancied I heard her sigh --
But I wouldn't just swear to that.
And maybe she wasn't so bright,
Though she talked in a merry strain,
And I closed my eyes ever so tight,
Yet I saw her ever so plain:
Her dear little tilted nose,
Her delicate, dimpled chin,
Her mouth like a budding rose,
And the glistening pearls within;
Her eyes like the violet:
Such a rare little queen -- Fleurette.

And at last when she rose to go,
The light was a little dim,
And I ventured to peep, and so
I saw her, graceful and slim,
And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh
How I envied and envied him!

So when she was gone I said
In rather a dreary voice
To him of the opposite bed:
"Ah, friend, how you must rejoice!
But me, I'm a thing of dread.
For me nevermore the bliss,
The thrill of a woman's kiss."

Then I stopped, for lo! she was there,
And a great light shone in her eyes;
And me! I could only stare,
I was taken so by surprise,
When gently she bent her head:
"May I kiss you, Sergeant?" she said.

Then she kissed my burning lips
With her mouth like a scented flower,
And I thrilled to the finger-tips,
And I hadn't even the power
To say: "God bless you, dear!"
And I felt such a precious tear
Fall on my withered cheek,
And darn it! I couldn't speak.

And so she went sadly away,
And I knew that my eyes were wet.
Ah, not to my dying day
Will I forget, forget!
Can you wonder now I am gay?
God bless her, that little Fleurette!

poem by Robert William Service
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Water On Glass

Written by ricky & marty wilde
Cascading down
Theres a sound vaporising into vision
Its a sound in my head
That I feel and it shuts me in a prison
Say it wont last
Say it will pass
Always the sound in my brain
Can you hear it
Water on glass running down again
Water on glass that sound
Water on glass running round again
Help me, the sound of running waters
Coming down
Dancing away
Like the lights on a moving coloured river
Sounds in my head seem to run
And again I feel a shiver
Say it wont last
Pray it will pass
Always that sound in my brain
Can you hear it (can you hear it)
Water on glass running down again
Water on glass that sound
Water on glass running round again
Help me, the sound of running waters
Coming down
Water on glass running down again
Water on glass that sound
Water on glass running round again
Help me, the sound of running waters
Coming down

song performed by by Kim Wilde
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Courage in the Glass

Courage in the Glass

Outside the bottle it's scary, thwarting all I aspire
Inside it's blurry liquid courage is what I desire

Touching my lips with the first sip makes me smile
For now I know where it will end in a short while

The moment I feel the warmth sliding down my throat
Oh it is so gloriously deliciously hidden in my waistcoat

With that first sip everything seems so clear
It knows just how to vanquish all my fears

Walking will be impossible but the world is at my feet
Who cares I am strong now my life it's so complete

Today, I'll show them all, I won't be thought of as a loser
I watch them snicker for in secret they all call me a boozer

The warmth I feel I know is wrong, I know it is not right
I also know that it will pass I'll show them all this night

I close my eyes free falling to a brand new level of desire
As my brain seeks the courage that all around me admire

The phone is ringing is it for me? I barely know my name
I must decide do I sit or stand? my mind is all aflame

I guess I should stop doing this in a moment it will pass
Oh the silence is so beautiful just give me one more glass

Jim 1961

poem by James Casey
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Shadows in the mirror

Shadows in the mirror
With memories of his midnight,
Is that you, with aglow on face?
Sad and pale filled with pain.

With a struggle for self;
Slipping past from my reaching hands.
With horizontal thrust from the present
Peeps into past for the venom errors.

I show not your face, your intuitive feeling.
A man of a solitary disposition
Your cold is gone with the wind
So close your eyes with holy dread,

His flashing eyes and floating hair!
Weave a circle round him.
And in your lurid eyes there glistened hope
The dying flame of life's desire;

Your reflections are stretched and distorted
With irony, and humor, and sadness.
It’s not my error; I am a mirror,
Showing you what you have in mettle;
Shadow tried to speak; but its tongue stumbles

poem by Sakkthi Subramaniyam
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The Tombstone Told When She Died

The tombstone told when she died.
Her two surnames stopped me still.
A virgin married at rest.
She married in this pouring place,
That I struck one day by luck,
Before I heard in my mother's side
Or saw in the looking-glass shell
The rain through her cold heart speak
And the sun killed in her face.
More the thick stone cannot tell.
Before she lay on a stranger's bed
With a hand plunged through her hair,
Or that rainy tongue beat back
Through the devilish years and innocent deaths
To the room of a secret child,
Among men later I heard it said
She cried her white-dressed limbs were bare
And her red lips were kissed black,
She wept in her pain and made mouths,
Talked and tore though her eyes smiled.
I who saw in a hurried film
Death and this mad heroine
Meet once on a mortal wall
Heard her speak through the chipped beak
Of the stone bird guarding her:
I died before bedtime came
But my womb was bellowing
And I felt with my bare fall
A blazing red harsh head tear up
And the dear floods of his hair.

poem by Dylan Thomas
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At Her Door

OPEN! Open! Open!
I am here at your door outside;
The sea's blue tide flows speedily,
And ebbs a thin red tide.'
The woman rose from her warm white bed,
Threw back her hair and smiled;
The ears of scorn heard the words of love,
And the wind and the words were wild.
'Wake! Awake! Awake!
And hearken the woe outside;
The moon is hid in cloudiness;
Calleth and calleth the tide.'
The woman stood in the silence still
As a thing men carve from stone.
Her eyes burned largely in the dark,
And the smile, like a stain, stayed on.
'Listen! Listen! Listen!
Hear you the rain to-night?
A warm dark rain is falling too,
And I grow ghostly-white.'
The woman took three steps and bowed;
The smile waned from her lip;
She heard the dripping of the rain
And a soft thick other drip.
'Open! Open! Open!
I die in the dark alone.
My voice goes up in weariness
Against your heart of stone.'
The moon to a cloud-cleft stealing
Gazed down on the yearning tide;
The woman opened the streaming door
And stood in the rain outside.
Silence! Stillness! She whispers,
'Ah, Love, that death should be!'
He sighed, 'Your lips are loveliness!'
And she sobbed, 'Woe is me!'
The woman pressed his dead white face
With her face as deadly white:
The moon drew in behind a cloud,
And the tide moaned through the night.

poem by Roderic Quinn
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To Mrs. Frances--Arabella Kelly.

To Day, as at my Glass I stood,
To set my Head--cloaths, and my Hood;
I saw my grizzled Locks with Dread,
And call'd to mind the Gorgon's Head.

Thought I, whate'er the Poets say,
Medusa's Hair was only gray:
Tho' Ovid, who the Story told,
Was too well--bred to call her old;
But, what amounted to the same,
He made her an immortal Dame.

Yet now, whene'er a Matron sage
Hath felt the rugged Hand of Age,
You hear out witty Coxcombs cry,
Rot that old Witch--she'll never die.
Tho', had they but a little Reading,
Ovid would teach them better Breeding.

I fancy now, I hear you say,
Grant Heav'n, my Locks may ne'er be gray!
Why am I told this frightful Story?
To Beauty a Memento mori.

And, as along the Room you pass,
Casting your Eye upon the Glass,
Surely, say you, this lovely Face
Will never suffer such Disgrace:
The Bloom, that on my Cheek appears,
Will never be impair'd by Years.
Her Envy, now, I plainly see,
Makes her inscribe those Lines to me.
These Beldams, who were born before me,
Are griev'd to see the Men adore me:
Their snaky Locks freeze up the Blood;
My Tresses fire the purple Flood.

Unnumber'd Slaves around me wait,
And from my Eyes expect their Fate:
I own, of Conquest I am vain,
Tho' I despise the Slaves I gain.
Heav'n gave me Charms, and destin'd me
For universal Tyranny.

poem by Mary Barber
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Because You Were Beautiful

Because you were beautiful
The frost formed fingerprints, on window glass
As if to touch your shoulder, when you pass;
Or write in code, your name upon the leaves
So that it shows, whenever something breathes,
Because you were beautiful

Because you were beautiful
The storm left grayish teardrops on the sill,
A keepsake of the stillness it must feel
After angry clouds have left the sky,
And the birds and wildlife breathe a sigh:
Because you were beautiful

Because you were beautiful
This heart has felt the shadow of your grace,
Wherever loveliness has left its trace;
And songs I heard beside you, on the earth
Became the stars above us, giving birth-
Because you were beautiful

poem by Patti Masterman
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Singring & The Glass Guitar

(an electrified fairy tale)
This is an electrified fairy tale. if youve never heard of an electrified
Fairy tale, just picture little fairies with wee tiny electric guitars.
Once upon a time [not long ago] in a land not far from here, there was a place
Called harmony. everyone in harmony was happy and this joie devivre was
Guarded by their invisible patron, the muse singring. but jealous forces, and
There are always jealous forces in such tales, have conspired to capture the
Spirit, imprisoning it in [an instrument of glass, locking it in] a chest with
Four keys, and casting the keys to the four corners of the earth so that only
Four particularly brave and talented individuals might retrieve them. it is
Here that our story begins.
Theres a rumor I heard thats going round town
Someones captured singring, singring
Come hear the news, come hurry on down
Down to the old town square
The announcer wipes at his eyes, hes trying to hide
See it in his face, tell by his expression
The secret knowledge that claws to escape as he cried
Day of infamy, someones captured singring
Day of tragedy, someones captured singring
Now what shall we do, what shall we do now?
And if you take a look around, harmony is dying
Someone trapped the spirit in a glass guitar
And if you listen with your heart, you can hear it crying
Free me from my crystal prison in this glass guitar
Theres a rumor I heard thats going around
Someones saving singring, singring
Come hear the summons, hurry on down
Down to the village green
And the spokesman speaks for us all, together we call
Brave adventurers, warriors, and free men
Conquer self and so in the end save us all
Conquer earth and wind, conquer fire and water
Brave adventurers, come and save us all
And if you fail to win the keys, harmony is dying
Trapped away forever in a glass guitar
And if you listen with your heart, you can hear it crying
Free me from my crystal prison in this glass guitar
Having gathered on the green, the brave adventurers of the land march off in
Search of the keys. their quest leads them first to the rivers edge.
Lead me to the water
Pass me my flagon of wine
I said show me to the water
Quick before I change my mind
I go down to the river and bravely the rapids I row
Over the falls to the bottomless pool
And its down to the bottom I go
Only one has the courage to dive into the river and brave the bottomless pool
In search of the first key.
Let the four winds blow icy breath before me
Storms will never keep me from the glass guitar
Hurricanes may scream, I will never feel it
til I find the key that leads me to the glass guitar
Only one has the courage to wander the desert [alone] and brave the eternal
Winds in search of the second key
Fire can never burn me
Flames can not catch me - faster am i
Blazes never faze me
Barefoot I walk hot coals for a mile
My sword is tempered, my loins are girded in steel
Make my way to the heart of the forest of flames
And if I do my best and dont stop to rest
I may pass the test and capture the key that opens the chest
Only one has the courage to make his way into the forest of flames and brave
The fire-breathing dragon in search of the third key.
I will climb the face of the highest mountain
Whilst singring calls crying from the glass guitar
Though the earth may shake let the planet tremble
Steady will I struggle onward to the glass guitar
Only one has the courage to climb to the top of the highest mountain in search
Of the fourth key.
Having scaled the mountain and finding no key, the climber begins chopping
Madly at the ground with his pickax, causing the mountain to split in two,
Revealing the last key.
Now in possession of all four keys, the brave adventurers march triumphantly
Into the valley of silence to open the chest, smash the glass guitar, and free
The spirit of harmony.

song performed by by Utopia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Voice From the Dungeon

I'm buried now; I've done with life;
I've done with hate, revenge and strife;
I've done with joy, and hope and love
And all the bustling world above.
Long have I dwelt forgotten here
In pining woe and dull despair;
This place of solitude and gloom
Must be my dungeon and my tomb.

No hope, no pleasure can I find:
I am grown weary of my mind;
Often in balmy sleep I try
To gain a rest from misery,

And in one hour of calm repose
To find a respite from my woes,
But dreamless sleep is not for me
And I am still in misery.

I dream of liberty, 'tis true,
But then I dream of sorrow too,
Of blood and guilt and horrid woes,
Of tortured friends and happy foes;

I dream about the world, but then
I dream of fiends instead of men;
Each smiling hope so quickly fades
And such a lurid gloom pervades

That world - that when I wake and see
Those dreary phantoms fade and flee,
Even in my dungeon I can smile,
And taste of joy a little while.

And yet it is not always so;
I dreamt a little while ago
That all was as it used to be:
A fresh free wind passed over me;

It was a pleasant summer's day,
The sun shone forth with cheering ray,
Methought a little lovely child
Looked up into my face and smiled.

My heart was full, I wept for joy,
It was my own, my darling boy;
I clasped him to my breast and he
Kissed me and laughed in childish glee.

Just them I heard in whisper sweet
A well known voice my name repeat.
His father stood before my eyes;
I gazed at him in mute surprise,

I thought he smiled and spoke to me,
But still in silent ecstasy
I gazed at him; I could not speak;
I uttered one long piercing shriek.

Alas! Alas! That cursed scream
Aroused me from my heavenly dream;
I looked around in wild despair,
I called them, but they were not there;
The father and the child are gone,
And I must live and die alone.

poem by Anne Brontë
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Lilith

Strange is the song, and the soul that is singing
Falters because of the vision it sees;
Voice that is not of the living is ringing
Down in the depths where the darkness is clinging,
Even when Noon is the lord of the leas,
Fast, like a curse, to the ghosts of the trees!
Here in a mist that is parted in sunder,
Half with the darkness and half with the day;
Face of a woman, but face of a wonder,
Vivid and wild as a flame of the thunder,
Flashes and fades, and the wail of the grey
Water is loud on the straits of the bay!

Father, whose years have been many and weary—
Elder, whose life is as lovely as light
Shining in ways that are sterile and dreary—
Tell me the name of this beautiful peri,
Flashing on me like the wonderful white
Star, at the meeting of morning and night.

Look to thy Saviour, and down on thy knee, man,
Lean on the Lord, as the Zebedee leaned;
Daughter of hell is the neighbour of thee, man—
Lilith, of Adam the luminous leman!
Turn to the Christ to be succoured and screened,
Saved from the eyes of a marvellous fiend!

Serpent she is in the shape of a woman,
Brighter than woman, ineffably fair!
Shelter thyself from the splendour, and sue, man;
Light that was never a loveliness human
Lives in the face of this sinister snare,
Longing to strangle thy soul with her hair!

Lilith, who came to the father and bound him
Fast with her eyes in the first of the springs;
Lilith she is, but remember she drowned him,
Shedding her flood of gold tresses around him—
Lulled him to sleep with the lyric she sings:
Melody strange with unspeakable things!

Low is her voice, but beware of it ever,
Swift bitter death is the fruit of delay;
Never was song of its beauty—ah! never—
Heard on the mountain, or meadow, or river,
Not of the night is it, not of the day—
Fly from it, stranger, away and away.

Back on the hills are the blossom and feather,
Glory of noon is on valley and spire;
Here is the grace of magnificent weather,
Where is the woman from gulfs of the nether?
Where is the fiend with the face of desire?
Gone, with a cry, in miraculous fire!

Sound that was not of this world, or the spacious
Splendid blue heaven, has passed from the lea;
Dead is the voice of the devil audacious:
Only a dream is her music fallacious,
Here, in the song and the shadow of tree,
Down by the green and the gold of the sea.

poem by Henry Kendall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Upon The Hour Glass

This glass, when made, was, by the workman's skill,
The sum of sixty minutes to fulfil.
Time, more nor less, by it will out be spun,
But just an hour, and then the glass is run.
Man's life we will compare unto this glass,
The number of his months he cannot pass;
But when he has accomplished his day,
He, like a vapour, vanisheth away.

poem by John Bunyan
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Ode To Boy

When he moves I watch him from behind
He turns and laughter flickers in his eyes
Intent and direct when he speaks, I watch his lips
And when he drives I love to watch his hand
White and smooth almost feminine, almost american, I have to watch him.
(chorus)
In his face age descends on youth, exaggeration on the truth
He caught me looking then but soon his eyes forgot
And everything he seems to do reflects just another shade of blue
I saw him searching into you and ached a while
I watch his lips caress the glass,
His fingers stroke its stem and pass
To lift a cigarette at last, he dries his eyes
From a shadow by the stair
I watch as he weeps unaware
That Im in awe of his despair, but I am there
(chorus repeat)

song performed by by Yaz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ode To Boy

When he moves I watch him from behind
He turns and laughter flickers in his eyes
Intent and direct when he speaks, I watch his lips
And when he drives I love to watch his hand
White and smooth almost feminine, almost american, I have to watch him.
(chorus)
In his face age descends on youth, exaggeration on the truth
He caught me looking then but soon his eyes forgot
And everything he seems to do reflects just another shade of blue
I saw him searching into you and ached a while
I watch his lips caress the glass,
His fingers stroke its stem and pass
To lift a cigarette at last, he dries his eyes
From a shadow by the stair
I watch as he weeps unaware
That Im in awe of his despair, but I am there
(chorus repeat)

song performed by by Yaz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Phantasmagoria: (The Nightmare)

O what a horrid dream that was!
(though not quite sure)
I found myself in an ancient tomb-
pyramid perhaps-
where reigned a mystery all around;
what a place it was!
yes a grave it was!
the terror of the atmosphere
ceased my thinking faculties...
when suddenly
my eyes were bound to see that scene:
in a box of glass-clear and clean
(from dust of time) i saw something...
but what was that much ugly thing?
a man perhaps?
and dead perhaps?
O what was that?
was he moving?
yes he was!

And then changed
that gruesome vision...
HE was back to life again
to rule, to kill, to fight again-
I found Him couched on a gold throne
placed on human skulls and bones;
He was dressed in a pharoah's dress
o yes, infact, He was a pharoah
everybody there was harrowed.
people were so mute and dumb
on hearing the sound of beating drums.
And who was that?
O goodness heart! yes, that was I
in stranglehold of iron chains,
in endless pain'''
His court was full of savage creatures-
men perhaps...
with frightened, dismal, downcast eyes.
and then I heard
the shrill voice of kingly man;
but what He ordered to His slave
was greek to me...
then suddenly
the sound of drums grew more intense-
and then...O God! ! !
a tall and savage slave,
whose eye-balls threw the flames of fire,
raised an odd but savage slogan
came to me...
drew his bare and deadly sword
and raised his giant-like hands
to cut my head...
I tried to cry:
O goodness heart!
help me in distress my God!
have mercy God!
I cried
and wept
and prayed to him:
just spare my life
don't cut my head,
don't take my life...

Aye what is this?
who pressed my head
and fingered hair with gentle love?
My gracious Maa?
yes, no one else but gracious Maa...do i live?
O yes I do-
am I saved?
O yes i am...
that slave with deadly sword was gone...
thank goodness the dream was gone...
and I am in my mother's room,
free of horror, free of gloom...
my dear Maa!
my gentle, kind and loving Maa!
give your blessed hand again!
take me in your lap again!
thank God
I am back again...

poem by Shahzia Batool
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Through the Glass

Why do i bother to open my eye?
When all i can do is sigh
never properly introduced
I do not know you and yet i feel seduced
that smile, and those clothes, the promise of something more
the promise of true love like that of childish lore
that flower in your hair
i cant help but stare
I'm not superficial I see something inside you
but you'll never know just who
who i am and who i hide
I'll just keep looking through the glass as from another world
you can't touch me
and you can't see
the man that i am
all i can do is just look at your through the glass
maybe one day our worlds will collide
one day i won't have to hide
but until then just keep that flower in your hair
until one day i dare
to break this glass, but at what cost? and is it even possible?

poem by David Knox
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The Careless Word

A WORD is ringing thro' my brain,
It was not meant to give me pain;
It had no tone to bid it stay,
When other things had past away;
It had no meaning more than all
Which in an idle hour fall:
It was when first the sound I heard
A lightly uttered, careless word.

That word--oh! it doth haunt me now,
In scenes of joy, in scenes of woe;
By night, by day, in sun or shade,
With the half smile that gently played
Reproachfully, and gave the sound
Eternal power thro' life to wound.
There is no voice I ever heard,
So deeply fix'd as that one word.

When in the laughing crowd some tone,
Like those whose joyous sound is gone,
Strikes on my ear, I shrink--for then
The careless word comes back again.
When all alone I sit and gaze
Upon the cheerful home-fire blaze,
Lo! freshly as when first 'twas heard,
Returns that lightly uttered word.

When dreams bring back the days of old;
With all that wishes could not hold;
And from my feverish couch I start
To press a shadow to my heart--
Amid its beating echoes, clear
That little word I seem to hear:
In vain I say, while it is heard,
Why weep?--'twas but a foolish word.

It comes--and with it come the tears,
The hopes, the joys of former years;
Forgotten smiles, forgotten looks,
Thick as dead leaves on autumn brooks,
And all as joyless, though they were
The brightest things life's spring could share.
Oh! would to God I ne'er had heard
That lightly uttered, careless word!

It was the first, the only one
Of those which lips for ever gone
Breathed in their love--which had for me
Rebuke of harshness at my glee:
And if those lips were here to say,
'Beloved, let it pass away,'
Ah! then, perchance--but I have heard
The last dear tone--the careless word!

Oh! ye who, meeting, sigh to part,
Whose words are treasures to some heart,
Deal gently, ere the dark days come,
When earth hath but for one a home;
Lest, musing o'er the past, like me,
They feel their hearts wrung bitterly,
And, heeding not what else they heard,
Dwell weeping on a careless word.

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lurline (Inscribed to Madame Lucy Escott.)

As you glided and glided before us that time,
A mystical, magical maiden,
We fancied we looked on a face from the clime
Where the poets have builded their Aidenn!
And oh, the sweet shadows! And oh, the warm gleams
Which lay on the land of our beautiful dreams,
While we walked by the margins of musical streams
And heard your wild warbling around us!

We forgot what we were when we stood with the trees
Near the banks of those silvery waters;
As ever in fragments they came on the breeze,
The songs of old Rhine and his daughters!
And then you would pass with those radiant eyes
Which flashed like a light in the tropical skies —
And ah! the bright thoughts that would sparkle and rise
While we heard your wild warbling around us.

Will you ever fly back to this city of ours
With your harp and your voice and your beauty?
God knows we rejoice when we meet with such flowers
On the hard road of Life and of Duty!
Oh! come as you did, with that face and that tone,
For we wistfully look to the hours which have flown,
And long for a glimpse of the gladness that shone
When we heard your wild warbling around us.

poem by Henry Kendall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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