Entangled
I STOOD as one enchanted,
All in the forest deep:
As one that wond'ring wanders,
Dream-bound within his sleep.
A thousand rustling footsteps
Pattered upon the ground;
A thousand whisp'ring voices
Made the wide silence, sound.
Some murmured deep and deeper,
Like waves in solemn seas;
Some breathèd sweet and sweeter,
Like elves on moon-lit leas.
Tall ferns, washed down in sunlight,
Beckoned with fingers green;
Tall flowers nodded strangely,
With white and glimm'ring sheen;
They sighed, they sang so softly,
They stretched their arms to me;
My heart, it throbbed so wildly,
In weird tumultuous glee.
I staggered in the mosses,
It seemed to drag me down
Into the gleaming bushes;
To fall, to sink, to drown.
When lo! thro' scared foliage,
A lovely bird did fly;
And looked at me so knowing,
With bright and curious eye;
It broke out into warbles,
And singing sped away;
But I, like one awakened,
Fled down the mossy way.
poem by Mathilde Blind
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Ring Out , Wild Bells
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more,
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Earth Waxeth Old.
When yellow-lock'd and crystal ey'd
I dream'd green woods among;
Where tall trees wav'd from side to side,
And in their green breasts deep and wide,
I saw the building blue jay hide,
O, then the earth was young!
The winds were fresh and brave and bold,
The red sun round and strong;
No prophet voice chill, loud and cold,
Across my woodland dreamings roll'd,
'The green earth waxeth sere and old,
That once was fair and young!'
I saw in scarr'd and knotty bole,
The fresh'ning of the sap;
When timid spring gave first small dole,
Of sunbeams thro' bare boughs that stole,
I saw the bright'ning blossoms roll,
From summer's high pil'd lap.
And where an ancient oak tree lay
The forest stream across,
I mus'd above the sweet shrill spray,
I watch'd the speckl'd trout at play,
I saw the shadows dance and sway
On ripple and on moss.
I pull'd the chestnut branches low,
As o'er the stream they hung,
To see their bursting buds of snow--
I heard the sweet spring waters flow--
My heart and I we did not know
But that the earth was young!
I joy'd in solemn woods to see,
Where sudden sunbeams clung,
On open space of mossy lea,
The violet and anemone,
Wave their frail heads and beckon me--
Sure then the earth was young!
I heard the fresh wild breezes birr,
New budded boughs among,
I saw the deeper tinting stir
In the green tassels of the fir,
I heard the pheasant rise and whirr,
Above her callow young.
I saw the tall fresh ferns prest,
By scudding doe and fawn;
I say the grey dove's swelling breast,
Above the margin of her nest;
When north and south and east and west
Roll'd all the red of dawn.
At eventide at length I lay,
On grassy pillow flung;
I saw the parting bark of day,
With crimson sails and shrouds all gay,
With golden fires drift away,
The billowy clouds among.
I saw the stately planets sail
On that blue ocean wide;
I saw blown by some mystic gale,
Like silver ship in elfin tale,
That bore some damsel rare and pale,
The moon's slim crescent glide.
And ev'ry throb of spring
The rust'ling boughs among,
That filled the silver vein of brook,
That lit with bloom the mossy nook,
Cried to my boyish bosom: 'Look!
How fresh the earth and young!'
The winds were fresh, the days as clear
As crystals set in gold.
No shape, with prophet-mantle drear,
Thro' those old woods came drifting near,
To whisper in my wond'ring ear,
'The green earth waxeth old.'
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Wild Blue-Bells
Came a bouquet from the city,
Fragrant, rich and debonair -
Sweet carnation and geraniium,
Heliotrope and roses rare.
Down beside the crystal river,
Where the moss-grown rocks are high,
And the ferns, from niche and crevice,
Stretch to greet the azure sky;
In the chaste October sunlight,
High above the path below,
Grew a tuft of lovely blue-bells,
Softly wind-swung to and fro.
Reached a dainty hand to grasp them,
Bore them home with loving care,
Tenderly and proudly placed them
'Mid the flowers so sweet and fair.
But my timid little blue-bells,
Children of the leafy wild,
Dazzled by their city sisters,
Turned away and, tearful, smiled.
When alone, I bent to kiss them,
Pleadingly they sighed to me,
'Take us, when we die, we pray thee,
Back beneath the dear old tree.'
'We would sleep where first the sunshine
Kissed us in the dewy morn;
Where, while soft, warm zephyrs fanned us,
Leaf and bud and flower were born.'
So I bore them, when they faded,
Back to where love sighed for them;
Laid them near the ferns and mosses,
'Neath the dear old parent stem; -
Deeply grieved that all things lovely
Must so soon forever die, -
That upon the gentle blue-bells
Winter's cold, deep snow must lie.
And I half arraigned the goodness
That made Death king everywhere -
Stretching forth his cruel sceptre -
Lord of sea, and earth and air.
Summer came, and all the hillsides
Wore a shim'ring robe of green;
And with rifts of sky and cloudlet
Flashed the river's golden sheen.
I was walking the old pathway,
When a tiny shout I hears;
Harken! was it elfin fairy,
Or some truant mocking bird?
No! a family of blue-bells
Waved their slender arms on high
Clapped their tiny arms in triumph,
Crying, 'See! we did not die.'
'Never more distrust the Master,
Love and Truth his ways attend
Death is but a darkened portal
Of a life that ne'er shall end
'Loved ones, parted from in anguish,
Your glad eyes again shall see, -
Brighter than the hopes you cherished
Shall the glad fruition be.'
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Ring Them Bells
Ring them bells yea heathen from the city that dreams
Ring them bells from the sanctuaries cross the valleys and streams
For they're deep and they're wide
And the world's on it's side
And time is running backwards and so is the bride
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells!
Ring them bells Saint Peter where the four winds blow
Ring them bells with an iron hand so the people will know
That the rush hour is now on the wheel and the plow and the sun is going down upon the sacred cow
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells
Ring them bells Saint Martha for the poor man's son
Ring them bells so the world will know that God is one
For the shepherd is asleep where the willows weep
And the mountains are filled with little lost sheep
Ring them bells for the blind and the deaf
Ring them bells for all of us who are left
Ring them bells for the chosen few who would judge the many when the game is through
Ring them bells for the time that flies
song performed by by Heart from Desire Walks On
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Skeleton Flat
HERE’S never a bough to be tossed in the breeze,
For it’s long since the forest was green;
And round all the trunks of the naked white trees
The marks of the death-ring are seen.
The solemn-faced bear, who had looked on the blacks
From his home with the ’possum and cat,
Blinked anxiously down when the death-dealing axe
Was ring-barking Skeleton Flat.
And, strange to be seen in the evergreen south,
The gums for ten summers have stood,
And dried in the terrible furnace of drouth,
Till harder than flint is the wood.
Now tall grows the grass at the roots of the trees,
But a beautiful forest it cost;
And the heart of the splitter is sad when he sees
And thinks of the timber that’s lost.
Here flies, through a sky that is glazed, the black crow,
And the eagle goes circling around,
Or evilly sits on a branch that is low,
With his gleaming black eye on the ground.
And loudly the jackasses chuckle in mirth,
When a comrade flies upward, until
Like a fragment of thread, in its height from the earth,
Is the writhing brown snake in his bill.
O fit for the place are the curlews that wail
On the banks of a distant lagoon,
Or round by the swamps that are shallow and pale
In the light of the nights of the moon;
When glist’ning and white are the frost-covered trees
That dead for ten summers have stood;
And the stranger, benighted, might fancy he sees
The skeleton wraith of a wood.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Jacques Cartier’s First Visit To Mount Royal
He stood on the wood-crowned summit
Of our mountain’s regal height,
And gazed on the scene before him,
By October’s golden light,
And his dark eyes, earnest, thoughtful,
Lit up with a softer ray
As they dwelt on the scene of beauty
That, outspread, before him lay.
Like a sea of liquid silver,
St. Lawrence, ’neath the sun,
Reflected the forest foliage
And the Indian wigwams dun,
Embracing the fairy islands
That its swift tide loving laves,
Reposing in tranquil beauty
Amid its sapphire waves.
To the eastward, frowning mountains
Rose in solemn grandeur still,
The glittering sunlight glinting
On steep and rugged hill;
Whilst in the far horizon,
Past leafy dell and haunt,
Like a line of misty purple,
Rose the dim hills of Vermont.
Then Cartier’s rapt gaze wandered
Where, starred with wild flowers sweet,
In its gorgeous autumn beauty,
Lay the forest at his feet.
With red and golden glory
All the foliage seemed ablaze
Yet with brightness strangely softened
By October’s amber haze.
Around him stretched the mountain
Ever lovely—ever young—
Graceful, softly undulating,
By tall forest trees o’erhung;
’Twas then his thought found utterance,
The words “Mont Royal” came,
And thus our Royal Mountain
Received its fitting name.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Echoes Of Spring
I.
I WALK about in driving snow,
And drizzling rain, splashed o'er and o'er;
No sign that radiant spring e'en now
Stands at the threshold of the door.
No sign that fragrant violets burn
To burst the ground and quicken forth;
No sign that swallow flights return,
To gladden all the serious north.
But in my breast--what flutterings here!
What bursts of song! what twitt'rings blest!
Sure the first swallow of the year
Within my heart has built her nest.
II.
Oft on the gleaming April days,
When skies are soft, and winds are warm,
And in the air a subtle charm,
And on the hill a flight of rays;
When silver clouds slide through the blue,
Spreading a pure, transparent wing,
And all the budding branches ring
With blithesome birds, that warbling woo;
Beneath a pear tree's shade I lay,
Deep bedded in the long thick grass,
And heard the twitt'ring swallow pass,
And grasshoppers at endless play.
I knew, though flowers mine eyes did screen,
That butterflies danced in the light;
For, breaking sunbeams in their flight,
They flashed their shadows on the green.
And gazing up, in dreamful ease,
Where quiv'ring frail on shivery sprays,
The blossoms mix a milky maze,
What hum of golden-girted bees!
So lily-white, the tree, behold,
Seems set on fire by burnished lights,
And shoal on honeying shoal alights,
And turns the snowy boughs to gold.
Thus on my spirit--music-fraught,
Burst swarms of glimm'ring melodies,
And like the yellow-banded bees,
Make honey of my flutt'ring thought.
III.
Sometimes on my soul will throng
Such a blossom-burst of song,
That I cannot seize it all,
Letting sweetest measures fall.
Thus a child feels--sudden sunk
On a crowding violet bank,
And delighted and amazed,
Gathers in a flushèd haste.
Gathers them so fast and fleet,
Little fingers cannot meet
O'er the lot; and swifter still
Than they cull, the wealth they spill.
To that sweets o'erflooded nook,
Casting back one longing look,
At the last it takes away
But one little odorous spray.
Yet through many a day and night,
Flinging back the fragrant sight,
Cleaves to face, and hands, and feet,
All the woodland's violets sweet.
IV.
Fain would I sing of each sweet sight and sound,
Of fleeting odours wheeling round and round,
Of sunbeams dancing on the virgin grass,
Of flocks of fleecy clouds that glimmer as they pass.
Of larks, that lost in the blue ether float,
Of the weird blackbird's dream--enchanted note!
While the glad hedges palpitate with song,
That drops like murm'ring rain the dewy fields among.
Of blooming bushes and of budding trees,
Of flaming flowers, dotting the grassy leas,
Of glowing pools and of the babbling rills,
That flash through azure mists, slumb'ring on folded hills.
Fain would I sing, sweet April-time, of thee,
And mingle in thy wantonness of glee;
But thou such overwealth of sweets dost fling,
My heart is all too full, too full to speak or sing.
V.
There's somewhat in the loveliness of spring,
In the young light, and in the fragrant bloom,
In the sweet song that each soft breeze doth wing,
In the bright flowers that rise from earth's dark womb;
Which fills with sadness the presentient mind,
And for a far-off home awakes the sigh;
Which makes us gaze, with longings undefined,
On dim blue hills, and weep--we know not why.
VI.
Oh, birds, winged voices! children of the light!
Whose song is love, whose love is melody;
Shedding o'er hedge, and field, and bush, and tree,
Your tuneful joy and musical delight,
Making the air, the earth, the heavens bright;
Melodious, tender, sad and gay and free;
By all these gifts true poets born are ye;
Love circumscribes alone your restless flight.
Poets, I say? Ah, not like poets here,
That wander forth alone, companionless;
Whose lays are wrung from them by care and pain;
Who sing, while blinded by the hot salt tear.
Not such are ye; but free from all distress,
Ye, with the sunlight, range o'er land and main.
VII.
Oh, soft sweet air of early spring,
Again thou float'st on viewless wing,
Coax'st snowdrops their white bells to ring,
And wak'st the blackbird up to sing.
Again, upon the bright'ning lea,
Beneath the budding bursting tree,
The toddling baby-mites I see,
Skip, jump, and frisk in lamb-like glee.
But I am sad, I know not why;
My breast heaves with the long-drawn sigh;
The tear rounds slowly in mine eye;
I'd like to lay me down and die.
VIII.
The blooming hedge, the budding grove,
Resound with notes of joy and love;
The gleaming bush, the glimm'ring tree,
Live with a dewy melody.
Along the meadows, flashing bright,
Run trills of shrill and sweet delight;
E'en the small snowy clouds among,
Gush showers on showers of silver song.
But thou, my heart, oh, tell me why
Hast thou no language but a sigh?
IX.
Like a flower-fall of rain,
Like a snowy elfin train,
Like stray gleams of moonlight fair,
Do you shift upon the air,
Do you flutter on the breeze,
Do you fall upon the leas,
Blossoms of the apple-trees;
Then on earth's bosom slow ye fade away,
Like to a low and sweetly dying lay.
X.
With thousand gaps the earth is split,
By sunbeams wounded o'er and o'er,
My heart, it acheth bit by bit;
Life's heat and dust have made it sore.
When wilt thou fall from clouds above,
In silver showers, refreshing rain?
When wilt thou come, reviving love,
With dew, and make me whole again?
A little while, big drops will slake,
Oh, earth, thy thirst's hot agony;
But till my fevered heart doth break,
Will solace ever come to me?
poem by Mathilde Blind
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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College love lost
She came to the class of physics
And sat by a tall white pillar never alone
An angle watching the board of elongated equations with no lyrics
I sat few rows behind her carved with stone
And once, but once she turned lifting her eyes
And suddenly, sweetly, strangely blushed
To find they were met by my own
And suddenly, sweetly strangely my heart beat stronger
My blood throbbed thicker until I heard no longer
The Thermo dynamic transformations laws
I was long gone under a pensive dream, an utterly estranged show
The bell’s ring pealed up the vaulted hall
What untimely abrupt call
I stood up on my feet stunned like a child
Would she remember it the passionate dual of our eyes’ meet
Ah well, very well, I might have been beguiled
By some coquettish deceit
Yet if she were not a cheat
If she were all that she seemed
And her smile had all that I dreamed
Then the world were not so shakily bitter
And her gracious smile would have sunken on me so much sweeter
What vile winds had scudded away the war
Of roses and daisies at her garden door
As she fled fast through sun and shade
The happy pine trees winds upon her played
Blowing the ringlet from the braid
She looked so lovely as she swayed
I stood watching her a man in his pride
Or a puppet on a string
The rein with dainty finger-tips
A man who would give all other bliss
And all his worldly worthy for this
To waste his whole heart in one kiss
Upon her perfect lips
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Lights Out
I have come to the borders of sleep,
The unfathomable deep
Forest where all must lose
Their way, however straight,
Or winding, soon or late;
They cannot choose.
Many a road and track
That, since the dawn's first crack,
Up to the forest brink,
Deceived the travellers,
Suddenly now blurs,
And in they sink.
Here love ends,
Despair, ambition ends,
All pleasure and all trouble,
Although most sweet or bitter,
Here ends in sleep that is sweeter
Than tasks most noble.
There is not any book
Or face of dearest look
That I would not turn from now
To go into the unknown
I must enter and leave alone
I know not how.
The tall forest towers;
Its cloudy foliage lowers
Ahead, shelf above shelf;
Its silence I hear and obey
That I may lose my way
And myself.
poem by Edward Thomas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lotus Leaves
I -
There is no peace beneath the moon,-
Ah! in those meadows is there peace
Where, girdled with a silver fleece,
As a bright shepherd, strays the moon? -
Queen of the gardens of the sky,
Where stars like lilies, white and fair,
Shine through the mists of frosty air,
Oh, tarry, for the dawn is nigh! -
Oh, tarry, for the envious day
Stretches long hands to catch thy feet.
Alas! but thou art overfleet,
Alas! I know thou wilt not stay.
II -
Eastward the dawn has broken red,
The circling mists and shadows flee;
Aurora rises from the sea,
And leaves the crocus-flowered bed. -
Eastward the silver arrows fall,
Splintering the veil of holy night:
And a long wave of yellow light
Breaks silently on tower and hall. -
And speeding wide across the wold
Wakes into flight some fluttering bird;
And all the chestnut tops are stirred,
And all the branches streaked with gold.
III -
To outer senses there is peace,
A dream-like peace on either hand,
Deep silence in the shadowy land,
Deep silence where the shadows cease, -
Save for a cry that echoes shrill
From some lone bird disconsolate;
A curlew calling to its mate;
The answer from the distant hill. -
And, herald of my love to Him
Who, waiting for the dawn, doth lie,
The orbed maiden leaves the sky,
And the white firs grow more dim.
IV -
Up sprang the sun to run his race,
The breeze blew fair on meadow and lea,
But in the west I seemed to see
The likeness of a human face. -
A linnet on the hawthorn spray
Sang of the glories of the spring,
And made the flow'ring copses ring
With gladness for the new-born day. -
A lark from out the grass I trod
Flew wildly, and was lost to view
In the great seamless veil of blue
That hangs before the face of God. -
The willow whispered overhead
That death is but a newer life
And that with idle words of strife
We bring dishonour on the dead. -
I took a branch from off the tree,
And hawthorn branches drenched with dew,
I bound them with a sprig of yew,
And made a garland fair to see. -
I laid the flowers where He lies
(Warm leaves and flowers on the stones):
What joy I had to sit alone
Till evening broke on tired eyes: -
Till all the shifting clouds had spun
A robe of gold for God to wear
And into seas of purple air
Sank the bright galley of the sun.
V -
Shall I be gladdened for the day,
And let my inner heart be stirred
By murmuring tree or song of bird,
And sorrow at the wild winds' play? -
Not so, such idle dreams belong
To souls of lesser depth than mine;
I feel that I am half divine;
I that I am great and strong. -
I know that every forest tree
By labour rises from the root
I know that none shall gather fruit
By sailing on the barren sea.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Rosary
Ring a Ring no Rosary
Standing in a row
Waiting for the hand to fall
God's children take a bow.
Ring a Ring no rosary
Shadow at the door
Sweat around his puffed up neck
Pain upon the floor.
Ring a Ring no Rosary
A whispered word to God
Judies, where's your mercy
From the stripping and the rod.
Ring a Ring no Rosary
Wipe away the tear.
Stained and dirty fingers
Garbing at my years.
Ring a Ring no Rosary
Now the pain is done
Christ upon his alter
Disciples in my Tomb.
poem by Alan Halford
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The House Of Dust: Part 04: 05: The Bitter Love-Song
No, I shall not say why it is that I love you—
Why do you ask me, save for vanity?
Surely you would not have me, like a mirror,
Say 'yes,—your hair curls darkly back from the temples,
Your mouth has a humorous, tremulous, half-shy sweetness,
Your eyes are April grey. . . .with jonquils in them?'
No, if I tell at all, I shall tell in silence . . .
I'll say—my childhood broke through chords of music
—Or were they chords of sun?—wherein fell shadows,
Or silences; I rose through seas of sunlight;
Or sometimes found a darkness stooped above me
With wings of death, and a face of cold clear beauty. .
I lay in the warm sweet grass on a blue May morning,
My chin in a dandelion, my hands in clover,
And drowsed there like a bee. . . .blue days behind me
Stretched like a chain of deep blue pools of magic,
Enchanted, silent, timeless. . . .days before me
Murmured of blue-sea mornings, noons of gold,
Green evenings streaked with lilac, bee-starred nights.
Confused soft clouds of music fled above me.
Sharp shafts of music dazzled my eyes and pierced me.
I ran and turned and spun and danced in the sunlight,
Shrank, sometimes, from the freezing silence of beauty,
Or crept once more to the warm white cave of sleep.
No, I shall not say 'this is why I praise you—
Because you say such wise things, or such foolish. . .'
You would not have me say what you know better?
Let me instead be silent, only saying—:
My childhood lives in me—or half-lives, rather—
And, if I close my eyes cool chords of music
Flow up to me . . . long chords of wind and sunlight. . . .
Shadows of intricate vines on sunlit walls,
Deep bells beating, with aeons of blue between them,
Grass blades leagues apart with worlds between them,
Walls rushing up to heaven with stars upon them. . .
I lay in my bed and through the tall night window
Saw the green lightning plunging among the clouds,
And heard the harsh rain storm at the panes and roof. . . .
How should I know—how should I now remember—
What half-dreamed great wings curved and sang above me?
What wings like swords? What eyes with the dread night in them?
This I shall say.—I lay by the hot white sand-dunes. .
Small yellow flowers, sapless and squat and spiny,
Stared at the sky. And silently there above us
Day after day, beyond our dreams and knowledge,
Presences swept, and over us streamed their shadows,
Swift and blue, or dark. . . .What did they mean?
What sinister threat of power? What hint of beauty?
Prelude to what gigantic music, or subtle?
Only I know these things leaned over me,
Brooded upon me, paused, went flowing softly,
Glided and passed. I loved, I desired, I hated,
I struggled, I yielded and loved, was warmed to blossom . . .
You, when your eyes have evening sunlight in them,
Set these dunes before me, these salt bright flowers,
These presences. . . .I drowse, they stream above me,
I struggle, I yield and love, I am warmed to dream.
You are the window (if I could tell I'd tell you)
Through which I see a clear far world of sunlight.
You are the silence (if you could hear you'd hear me)
In which I remember a thin still whisper of singing.
It is not you I laugh for, you I touch!
My hands, that touch you, suddenly touch white cobwebs,
Coldly silvered, heavily silvered with dewdrops;
And clover, heavy with rain; and cold green grass. . .
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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The Ring
I discovered a perfect circle of mushrooms,
some believe this to be a fairy ring.
I decided to watch the ring from some distance
on the off chance I might see something.
After an hour or so of waiting
two butterflies flew around the ring.
A circle of tiny golden stars lit up the area
and I could hear soft voices sing.
Eight fairies appeared sitting on the mushrooms,
it was they who were singing after all.
They began to dance around the ring of mushrooms,
which made them grow incredibly tall.
The silver fairy saw me watching
and flew to the centre of the ring.
She twisted and turned and flew above the circle,
sprinkling fairy dust over everything.
The other fairies turned to face me
and put out their fairy tongues.
They continued to dance in the air regardless,
then faded with the sound of their song.
poem by Orlando Belo
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The New Arrival
THERE came to port last Sunday night
The queerest little craft,
Without an inch of rigging on;
I looked and looked—and laughed!
It seemed so curious that she
Should cross the Unknown water,
And moor herself within my room—
My daughter! O, my daughter!
Yet by these presents witness all
She ’s welcome fifty times,
And comes consigned in hope and love—
And common-metre rhymes.
She has no manifest but this;
No flag floats o’er the water;
She ’s too new for the British Lloyds—
My daughter! O, my daughter!
Ring out, wild bells—and tame ones too;
Ring out the lover’s moon.
Ring in the little worsted socks,
Ring in the bib and spoon.
Ring out the muse, ring in the nurse,
Ring in the milk and water.
A way with paper, pen, and ink—
My daughter! O, my daughter!
poem by George Washington Cable
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jesus In Cell
Last night Jesus entered my cell.
Oh, how sad was Christ, how tall!
The moon entered after him the cell,
and made Him taller and sadder, I recall.
His hands were like lilies on graves,
Eyes as deep as forests' lands,
The moon threw silver on his garments in waves,
silvering His big, pierced hands.
I got up from under the old, gray blanket of mine:
- God, where do you come from? From what age, tell me, please?
Jesus gently put a finger to His mouth as a sign,
motioned for me to be quiet and at ease...
He sat next to me on the mat full of dust...
- Put your hand on my wounds, on my veins,
On his ankles were shadows of wounds and rust,
It was as if he had once worn chains...
Sighing, He stretched His tired bones
on my mat where cockroaches go.
The moon shined through the cell's stones,
but the thick lattices reflected stripes on His snow.
The cell looked like a mountain,
it looked like a skull,
and there were biting lice, pain, and many fears,
On my hand, I felt my head fall,
I fell asleep for a thousand years...
When I woke up from my abyssal dream,
the straw smelled like flowers, like a fresh rose.
I was in the cell and the moon was agleam,
only Jesus was nowhere... nowhere close.
I stretched out my arms, but no one, only silence.
I asked the wall: no answer at all!
Only the cold rays, sharpened by violence,
with their spear piercing me into the cell wall.
- Where are you, God? I screamed at the bars.
Smoke was coming from the moon on the narrow trails,
I touched myself... and on my hands... scars...
I found the marks of His nails.
poem by Radu Gyr, translated by Marius Alexandru
Submitted by anonym
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The Last Wish
Go to the forest-shade,
Seek thou the well-known glade,
Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie,
Gleaming thro' moss-tufts deep,
Like dark eyes fill'd with sleep,
And bath'd in hues of summer's midnight sky.
Bring me their buds, to shed
Around my dying bed,
A breath of May, and of the wood's repose;
For I in sooth depart,
With a reluctant heart,
That fain would linger where the bright sun glows.
Fain would I stay with thee–
Alas! this may not be;
Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours!
Go where the fountain's breast
Catches in glassy rest
The dim green light that pours thro' laurel bowers.
I know how softly bright,
Steep'd in that tender light,
The water-lilies tremble there ev'n now;
Go to the pure stream's edge,
And from its whisp'ring sedge,
Bring me those flowers to cool my fever'd brow!
Then, as in Hope's young days,
Track thou the antique maze
Of the rich garden to its grassy mound;
There is a lone white rose,
Shedding, in sudden snows,
Its faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around.
Well know'st thou that fair tree–
A murmur of the bee
Dwells ever in the honey'd lime above;
Bring me one pearly flower
Of all its clustering shower–
For on that spot we first reveal'd our love.
Gather one woodbine bough,
Then, from the lattice low
Of the bower'd cottage which I bade thee mark,
When by the hamlet last,
Thro' dim wood-lanes we pass'd,
While dews were glancing to the glowworm's spark.
Haste! to my pillow bear
Those fragrant things and fair;
My hand no more may bind them up at eve,
Yet shall their odour soft
One bright dream round me waft
Of life, youth, summer,–all that I must leave!
And oh! if thou wouldst ask
Wherefore thy steps I task,
The grove, the stream, the hamlet-vale to trace;
'Tis that some thought of me,
When I am gone, may be
The spirit bound to each familiar place.
I bid mine image dwell,
(Oh! break not thou the spell!)
In the deep wood and by the fountain-side;
Thou must not, my belov'd!
Rove where we two have rov'd,
Forgetting her that in her spring-time died!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ring Them Bells
Ring them bells ye heathen from the city that dreams
Ring them bell from the sanctuaries, 'cross the valleys and streams
For they're deep and they're wide, and the world's on its side
And time is a-runnin' backwards and so is the bride
Ring them bells St. Peter where the four winds blow
Ring them bells with an iron hand so the people will know
Oh it's rush hour now. on the wheel of the plow
And the sun is a-goin' down upon the sacred cow
Ring them bells sweet Martha for the poor man's son
Ring them bells so the world will know that God is one
For the shepherd is asleep where the willow weep
And the mountain is filled with lost sheep
Ring them bells - for the blind and the deaf
Ring them bells - all those who are left
Ring them bells - for the chosen few
Who'll judge the many when the game is through
Ring them bells - for the time that flies
For the child who cries when innocence dies
Ring them bells St. Catherine from the top of the roof
Ring the bells from the fortress for the lilies that bloom
For the lines are long and the fighting is strong
And they're breakin' down the distance between right and wrong
song performed by by Alice In Chains
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love's Old Sweet Song
Once in the dear dead days beyond recall,
When on the world the mists began to fall,
Out of the dreams that rose in happy throng
Low to our hearts Love sung an old sweet song;
And in the dusk where fell the firelight gleam,
Softly it wove itself into our dream.
Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low,
And the flick'ring shadows softly come and go,
Tho' the heart be weary, sad the day and long,
Still to us at twilight comes Love's old song,
Comes Love's old sweet song.
Even today we hear Love's song of yore,
Deep in our hearts it dwells for evermore
Footsteps may falter, weary grow the way,
Still we can hear it at the close of day,
So till the end, when life's dim shadows fall,
Love will be found the sweetest song of all.
Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low,
And the flick'ring shadows softly come and go,
Tho' the heart be weary, sad the day and long,
Still to us at twilight comes Love's old song,
Comes Love's old sweet song.
poem by Clifton Bingham
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Voyager's Dream Of Land
His very heart athirst
To gaze at nature in her green array,
Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'd
With visions prompted by intense desire;
Fair fields appear below, such as he left
Far distant, such as he would die to find:
He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more. ~ Cowper
The hollow dash of waves!–the ceaseless roar!
Silence, ye billows! vex my soul no more.
There's a spring in the woods by my sunny home,
Afar from the dark sea's tossing foam;
Oh! the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear,
As a song from the shore to the sailor's ear!
And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws,
Thro' the feathery fern and the olive boughs,
And the gleam on its path as it steals away
Into deeper shades from the sultry day,
And the large water-lilies that o'er its bed
Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread,
They haunt me! I dream of that bright spring's flow,
I thirst for its rills, like a wounded roe!
Be still, thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry!
My spirit sickens, as thy wing sweeps by.
Know ye my home, with the lulling sound
Of leaves from the lime and the chestnut round?
Know ye it, brethren! where bower'd it lies,
Under the purple of southern skies?
With the streamy gold of the sun that shines
In thro' the cloud of its clustering vines,
And the summer-breath of the myrtle-flowers,
Borne from the mountain in dewy hours,
And the fire-fly's glance thro' the dark'ning shades,
Like shooting stars in the forest-glades,
And the scent of the citron at eve's dim fall
Speak! have ye known, have ye felt them all?
The heavy rolling surge! the rocking mast!
Hush! give my dream's deep music way, thou blast!
Oh! the glad sounds of the joyous earth!
The notes of the singing cicala's mirth,
The murmurs that live in the mountain pines,
The sighing of reeds as the day declines,
The wings flitting home thro' the crimson glow
That steeps the wood when the sun is low,
The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill
To the heart of the leaves when the winds are still
I hear them! round me they rise, they swell,
They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell,
They come with a breath from the fresh spring-time,
And waken my youth in its hour of prime.
The white foam dashes high away, away!
Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray!
It is there! down the mountains I see the sweep
Of the chestnut forests, the rich and deep,
With the burden and glory of flowers that they bear,
Floating upborne on the blue summer-air,
And the light pouring thro' them in tender gleams,
And the flashing forth of a thousand streams!
Hold me not, brethren! I go, I go,
To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles blow,
To the depths of the woods, where the shadows rest,
Massy and still, on the greensward's breast,
To the rocks that resound with the water's play
I hear the sweet laugh of my fount give way!
Give way! the booming surge, the tempest's roar,
The sea-bird's wail, shall vex my soul no more.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ring Ring
I was sitting by the phone
I was waiting all alone
Baby by myself I sit and wait and wonder about you
Its a dark and dreary night
Seems like nothings going right
Wont you tell me honey how can I go on here without you?
Yes Im down and feeling blue
And I dont know what to do, oh-oh
Ring, ring, why dont you give me a call?
Ring, ring, the happiest sound of them all
Ring, ring, I stare at the phone on the wall
And I sit all alone impatiently
Wont you please understand the need in me
So, ring, ring, why dont you give me a call?
So, ring, ring, why dont you give me a call?
You were here and now youre gone
Hey did I do something wrong?
I just cant believe that I could be so badly mistaken
Was it me or was it you?
Tell me, are we really through?
Wont you hear me cry and you will know that my heart is breaking
Please forgive and then forget
Or maybe darling better yet, oh-oh
Ring, ring, why dont you give me a call?
Ring, ring, the happiest sound of them all
Ring, ring, I stare at the phone on the wall
And I sit all alone impatiently
Wont you please understand the need in me
So, ring, ring, why dont you give me a call?
So, ring, ring, why dont you give me a call?
Oh-oh, ring, ring, why dont you give me a call?
So, ring, ring, why dont you give me a call?
song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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