Internal Firesides
Bewilderingly, from wildly shaken cloud,
Invisible hands, deft moving everywhere,
Have woven a winding sheet of velvet air,
And laid the dead earth in her downy shroud.
And more and more, in white confusion, crowd
Wan, whirling flakes, while o'er the icy glare
Blue heaven that was glooms blackening o'er the bare
Tree skeletons, to ruthless tempest bowed.
Nay, let the outer world be winter-locked;
Beside the hearth of glowing memories
I warm my life. Once more our boat is rocked,
As on a cradle by the palm-fringed Nile;
And, sharp-cut silhouettes, in single file,
Lank camels lounge against transparent skies.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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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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A December Day
Blue, blue is the sea to-day,
Warmly the light
Sleeps on St. Andrews Bay --
Blue, fringed with white.
That's no December sky!
Surely 'tis June
Holds now her state on high,
Queen of the noon.
Only the tree-tops bare
Crowning the hill,
Clear-cut in perfect air,
Warn us that still
Winter, the aged chief,
Mighty in power,
Exiles the tender leaf,
Exiles the flower.
Is there a heart to-day,
A heart that grieves
For flowers that fade away,
For fallen leaves?
Oh, not in leaves or flowers
Endures the charm
That clothes those naked towers
With love-light warm.
O dear St. Andrews Bay,
Winter or Spring
Gives not nor takes away
Memories that cling
All round thy girdling reefs,
That walk thy shore,
Memories of joys and griefs
Ours evermore.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Winters advance...
In the dark of night the wind do'th blow,
Through the hills and the drifting snow.
The branches of an oak tree sigh and creek,
Raised above that silent snowy sheet.
Winter snowflakes soon come dancing,
As the winter storm it is advancing.
At first a few, but then so many,
When at first there were not any.
Engulfing a wintery slumbering earth,
In a snowy cotton across her girth.
Fashioning a crystal white snowy gown,
Woven from the whitest down.
Now covered in her pure white sheet,
Our mother earth has gone to sleep.
Her yearly rest forever taken,
When spring time comes she shall awaken...
Spread the love... The peace will follow...
poem by Cosmic Dreamer
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Skeletons Of Summer
Branches naked against skies of blue,
Skeletons all, with summer gone,
Stark and rigid, in morbid hue,
Oh, so sad now, to look upon.
Festive trees no longer seen,
Nothing softening to the eye,
Only memories of what has been,
Now the leaves have said 'goodbye'.
But once the spring comes into view,
These skeletons will live and thrive,
Those spreading arms will be clothed anew,
And once again become alive.
New buds will sprout from boughs so bare,
And will in time, exposed limbs, disguise,
Then a glorious show, nothing will compare,
With this vision of green, against clear blue skies.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Old Magic
Gray is the sea, and the skies are gray;
They are ghosts of our blue, bright yesterday;
And gray are the breasts of the gulls that scream
Like tortured souls in an evil dream.
There is white on the wings of the sea and sky,
And white are the gulls' wings wheeling by,
And white, like snow, is the pall that lies
Where love weeps over his memories.
For the dead is dead, and its shroud is wrought
Of good unfound and of wrong unsought;
Yet from God's good magic there ever springs
The resurrection of holy things.
See--the gold and blue of our yesterday
In the eyes and the hair of a child at play;
And the spell of joy that our youth beguiled
Is woven anew in the laugh of the child.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Soldier's Mother
With a loud knock, entered a sheet, as white as a shroud!
Nobody knew what it had, solitude or crowd!
With her shaking slim hands,
the shrunken shivering Mother received
and, turned back
to find, no one for who could read.
It had brought her solitude and crowd, together.
She accepted.
How could she not?
She knew her son, has truly returned to her forever
She knew she was the mother of a brave soldier!
So she lives her solitary life,
yet
says with perfect ease 'Yes, my son laid his life, for Her!
Her, The Mother of the Mothers! !
poem by Googi Sweety
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Unseasonable Snows
The leaves have not yet gone; then why do ye come,
O white flakes falling from a dusky cloud?
But yesterday my garden-plot was proud
With uncut sheaves of ripe chrysanthemum.
Some trees the winds have stripped; but look on some,
'Neath double load of snow and foliage bowed,
Unnatural winter fashioning a shroud
For Autumn's burial ere its pulse be numb.
Yet Nature plays not an inhuman part:
In her, our own, vicissitudes we trace.
Do we not cling to our accustomed place,
Though journeying Death have beckoned us to start?
And faded smiles oft linger in the face,
While grief's first flakes fall silent on the heart!
poem by Alfred Austin
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Rich Bounty
The trees are bare from winter,
all the foliage is gone,
but if you look closely
you will notice their life is yet gone.
On each limb of the tree
there is the awakening of new life from within
as spring sings its song
with warm winds and gentle showers
to warm and water the earth
bringing forth the rich bounty
that summer is waiting for.
The hibernating creatures will soon awake
to fill the land once more
as we bask again under the blue sun filled skies
as season follows season
to enrich our lives.
9 March 2009
poem by David Harris
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The Burial Of The Poet
In the old churchyard of his native town,
And in the ancestral tomb beside the wall,
We laid him in the sleep that comes to all,
And left him to his rest and his renown.
The snow was falling, as if Heaven dropped down
White flowers of Paradise to strew his pall;--
The dead around him seemed to wake, and call
His name, as worthy of so white a crown.
And now the moon is shining on the scene,
And the broad sheet of snow is written o'er
With shadows cruciform of leafless trees,
As once the winding-sheet of Saladin
With chapters of the Koran; but, ah! more
Mysterious and triumphant signs are these.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Your Fate
But O' how far away thy Heaven's?
That drift in between
Each Ethereal cloud
Hiding or concealing it's location
Behind a velvet cereulan shroud?
The azure blue in this coverlet
Makes a statement divine to thy will
Upon thy lace of heaven's doorstep
God wait's for His children still
Come one, saint or sinner
Admist these divine Pearl clad gates
And tiptoe upon the atmosphere's velvet
So then too, you shall understand
Your God ordained fate
poem by Theodora Onken
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The Humming-Bird
What a boom! boom!
Sounds among the honeysuckles!
Saying, 'Room! room!
Hold your breath and mind your knuckles!”
And a fairy birdling bright
Flits like a living dart of light,
With his tiny whirlwind wings
Flies and rests and sings.
All his soul one flash, one quiver,
Down each cup
He thrusts his long beak with a shiver,
Drinks the sweetness up;
Takes the best of earth and goes—
Daring sprite!—
Back to his heaven no mortal knows,
A heaven as sweet as the heart of a rose
Shut at night.
Out upon the trackless highway
Now I go,
Beaten road and trail and byway
Far below!
I have shaken from my feet
Mire of earth, dust of the street.
Now the birds' way shall be my way,
Winds of heaven shall be my seat!
Out upon the untrodden highway
Now I go.
Patterned parks and bold skyscrapers
Of the town,
Close-packed houses plumed with vapors,
Dwindle down
In a world that slants and tips.
And the little creeping ships
Skim the sea. And people crawling
In their cage earth-bound, appalling,
Crowd and cross and would be free—
Look at me!
I shall over-ride the mountain
Through the blue,
And the cloud shall be my fountain
Fringed with dew.
Towers and tree-tops swing and sway,
Broidered meadows glide away.
Now I tread the air's own highway,
Now the eagle's way is my way.
I am off to meet the mountain—
Where are you?
poem by Harriet Monroe
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A March Snow
Let the old snow be covered with the new:
The trampled snow, so soiled, and stained, and sodden.
Let it be hidden wholly from our view
By pure white flakes, all trackless and untrodden.
When Winter dies, low at the sweet Spring's feet
Let him be mantled in a clean, white sheet.
Let the old life be covered by the new:
The old past life so full of sad mistakes,
Let it be wholly hidden from the view
By deeds as white and silent as snow-flakes.
Ere this earth life melts in the eternal Spring
Let the white mantle of repentance fling
Soft drapery about it, fold on fold,
Even as the new snow covers up the old.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Rocked In The Cradle Of The Deep
Rocked in the cradle of the deep
I lay me down in peace to sleep;
Secure I rest upon the wave,
For Thou, O Lord! hast power to save.
I know Thou wilt not slight my call,
For Thou dost mark the sparrow's fall;
And calm and peaceful shall I sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep.
When in the dead of night I lie
And gaze upon the trackless sky,
The star-bespangled heavenly scroll,
The boundless waters as they roll, -
I feel Thy wondrous power to save
From perils of the stormy wave:
Rocked in the cradle of the deep,
I calmly rest and soundly sleep.
And such the trust that still were mine,
Though stormy winds swept o'er the brine,
Or though the tempest's fiery breath
Roused me from sleep to wreck and death.
In ocean cave, still safe with Thee
The germ of immortality!
And calm and peaceful shall I sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep.
poem by Emma Hart Willard
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The Snow-Shower (Quatrain)
The sky is scattered and fallen down,
The earth is no more brown,
Winter has bidden good bye to the fall.
Snow flakes have woven the white gown.
Very soon they have started to crawl,
On the bare trees standing tall,
With Christmas trees, when they abide
Each looks like a cotton candy ball.
With stored food, having feasted inside,
In their nests, the squirrels like to hide.
Sun is too mild to dissolve the warmth,
Earth is dressed like a wedding bride.
poem by Jyoti Sunit Chaudhary
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A View
driftwood
with seven twigs
on the shore
as clear as glass
is the water
and all stones and pebbles
are visible
above
blue skies
so blue that the white cotton clouds
appear like sperm cells moving
impregnating
an earth-sky womb
and then
it rains
the water rises
the drift wood again taken
floating
gently to another shore
another island
of white sands
a coconut tree towers
to reach a waft of cloud
winds as cool as ice
sands slipping on the fingers
a leaf from a guyabano tree falls
on the mouth
of a sleeping woman
beside her
the man whose arms are enclosing
her throughout
the rainy night
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Airborn Seeds
seeds fall
out of the bosom
of the air,
the seed
of each
unique
snowflake
born,
born from
the bosom
of mother nature,
the milk
of her
winter
nurturing
woven landscape,
the seed
are the snowflakes
born from
the cloud-folds
of her garments shaken,
soon to be shaken,
'Over the woodlands brown and bare'.
Quoted line from ‘Snowflakes’ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Palm-Tree
Is it the palm, the cocoa-palm,
On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm?
Or is it a ship in the breezeless calm?
A ship whose keel is of palm beneath,
Whose ribs of palm have a palm-bark sheath,
And a rudder of palm it steereth with.
Branches of palm are its spars and rails,
Fibres of palm are its woven sails,
And the rope is of palm that idly trails!
What does the good ship bear so well?
The cocoa-nut with its stony shell,
And the milky sap of its inner cell.
What are its jars, so smooth and fine,
But hollowed nuts, filled with oil and wine,
And the cabbage that ripens under the Line?
Who smokes his nargileh, cool and calm?
The master, whose cunning and skill could charm
Cargo and ship from the bounteous palm.
In the cabin he sits on a palm-mat soft,
From a beaker of palm his drink is quaffed,
And a palm-thatch shields from the sun aloft!
His dress is woven of palmy strands,
And he holds a palm-leaf scroll in his hands,
Traced with the Prophet's wise commands!
The turban folded about his head
Was daintily wrought of the palm-leaf braid,
And the fan that cools him of palm was made.
Of threads of palm was the carpet spun
Whereon he kneels when the day is done,
And the foreheads of Islam are bowed as one!
To him the palm is a gift divine,
Wherein all uses of man combine,--
House, and raiment, and food, and wine!
And, in the hour of his great release,
His need of the palm shall only cease
With the shroud wherein he lieth in peace.
'Allah il Allah!' he sings his psalm,
On the Indian Sea, by the isles of balm;
'Thanks to Allah who gives the palm!'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Christmas Roses
THE summer roses all are gone--
Dead, laid in shroud of rain-wet mould;
And passion's lightning time is done,
And Love is laid out white and cold.
Summer and youth for us are dead,
What do old age and winter bring instead?
They bring us memories of old years,
And Christmas roses, cold and sweet,
Which, washed by not unhappy tears,
I bring and lay beside your feet,
With gifts that come with flowers like these--
Friendship, remembrance of our past, and peace!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Charm, The
In darkness the loud sea makes moan;
And earth is shaken, and all evils creep
About her ways.
Oh, now to know you sleep!
Out of the whirling blinding moil, alone,
Out of the slow grim fight,
One thought to wing -- to you, asleep,
In some cool room that's open to the night
Lying half-forward, breathing quietly,
One white hand on the white
Unrumpled sheet, and the ever-moving hair
Quiet and still at length! . . .
Your magic and your beauty and your strength,
Like hills at noon or sunlight on a tree,
Sleeping prevail in earth and air.
In the sweet gloom above the brown and white
Night benedictions hover; and the winds of night
Move gently round the room, and watch you there.
And through the dreadful hours
The trees and waters and the hills have kept
The sacred vigil while you slept,
And lay a way of dew and flowers
Where your feet, your morning feet, shall tread.
And still the darkness ebbs about your bed.
Quiet, and strange, and loving-kind, you sleep.
And holy joy about the earth is shed;
And holiness upon the deep.
poem by Rupert Brooke
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The Charm
In darkness the loud sea makes moan;
And earth is shaken, and all evils creep
About her ways.
Oh, now to know you sleep!
Out of the whirling blinding moil, alone,
Out of the slow grim fight,
One thought to wing - to you, asleep,
In some cool room that's open to the night
Lying half-forward, breathing quietly,
One white hand on the white
Unrumpled sheet, and the ever-moving hair
Quiet and still at length! . . .
Your magic and your beauty and your strength,
Like hills at noon or sunlight on a tree,
Sleeping prevail in earth and air.
In the sweet gloom above the brown and white
Night benedictions hover; and the winds of night
Move gently round the room, and watch you there.
And through the dreadful hours
The trees and waters and the hills have kept
The sacred vigil while you slept,
And lay a way of dew and flowers
Where your feet, your morning feet, shall tread.
And still the darkness ebbs about your bed.
Quiet, and strange, and loving-kind, you sleep.
And holy joy about the earth is shed;
And holiness upon the deep.
poem by Rupert Brooke (1909)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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