The Avon
WHAT are the Willows whispering in a row,
Nodding their old heads o'er the river's edge?
What does the West wind whisper to the sedge
And to the shame-faced purples drooping low?
Why sobs the water, in its broken flow
Lapping against the grey weir's ruined ledge?
And, in the thorny shelter of the hedge,
What bird unloads his heart of woe?
Green Avon's haunted! Look, from yonder bank
The willow leans, that hath not ceased to weep,
Whence, hanging garlands, fair Ophelia sank;
Since Jacques moped here the trees have had a tongue;
And all these streams and whispering willows keep
The moan of Desdemona's dying song.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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Related quotes
Piper At The Gates Of Dawn
Piper at the gates of dawn
The coolness of the riverbank, and the whispering of the reeds
Daybreak is not so very far away
Enchanted and spellbound, in the silence they lingered
And rowed the boat as the light grew steadily strong
And the birds were silent, as they listened for the heavenly music
And the river played the song
The wind in the willows and the piper at the gates of dawn
The wind in the willows and the piper at the gates of dawn
The song dream happened and the cloven hoofed piper
Played in that holy ground where they felt the awe and wonder
And they all were unafraid of the great God pan
And the wind in the willows and the piper at the gates of dawn
The wind in the willows and the piper at the gates of dawn
When the vision vanished they heard a choir of birds singing
In the heavenly silence between the trance and the reeds
And they stood upon the lawn and listened to the silence
Of the wind in the willows and the piper at the gates of dawn
The wind in the willows and the piper at the gates of dawn
The wind in the willows and the piper at the gates of dawn
Its the wind in the willows and the piper at the gates of dawn
The wind in the willows and the piper at the gates of dawn
The wind in the willows and the piper at the gates of dawn
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Whispering Wind
like the whispering wind you sent to me
like the hopeless time you gave to me
i watched your dreams all slip away
i watched your dreams all slip away
there's a hopeless place inside my heart
when i look inside i see where we are
like the whispering wind in the top of the trees
i will watch the sky come following me
like the rain on my windows late every night
like the hope i have for us every time
it's like the whispering wind in the top of the trees
i see it sway as you come for me
there's a whispering wind i feel it inside
like a place i can feel but never will see
let a whisper come touch you come touch every thing
i stand in the way of the things i can be
let the whispering wind come lift us away
let it push us apart if we wish to stay
you're my sweetness my baby my love for all time
like the whispering wind it makes you all mine
like the whispering wind you stand here with me
like the whispering wind you stand here with me
i see your dreams all slip away
slip away
slip away
slip away
song performed by by Moby
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Whispering Willow of Wonder
Weeping willow by the water
Whisper your story to me
A song of love and peace
Here for all to see
Whispering Willow of Wonder
Swaying your blessings to me
Teach me your treasures of wisdom
You sing and you dance like the sea
Beautiful hair by the water
Green with the Mother’s grown love
Stir in me mystical union
With light of the Earth and above
Wonderful willow of wishes
Cleansing earth, water and wind
Muse of the mystical marriage
Of bard and of lover you’re kin
Adorning the ways of the water
Warm welcoming willow is found
Holding the light in the garden
Bringing deep peace with its sound
poem by Edward Durand
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Willow Weep For Me
Yes, willow weep for me
Willow weep for me
Bend your branches green along the stream that runs to sea
Listen to my plea
Listen willow and weep for me
Yes, gone my lovers dream
Lovely summer dream
Gone and left me here to weep my tears into the stream
Sad as I can be
Hear me willow and weep for me
Oh, whisper to the wind and say that loves a sin
Leave my heart a-breaking, and making a moan
Murmur to the night to hide her starry light
So none will find me sighing, crying all alone
Oh, willow weep tree
Weeping sympathy
Bend your branches down along the ground and cover me
When the shadows fall, bend over willow and weep for me
Whisper to the wind and say that love is sin
Leave my heart a-breaking, and making a moan
Murmur to the night to hide her starry light
So none will find me sighing and crying all alone
Yes, willow weep tree
Weeping sympathy
Bend your branches down along the ground and cover me
When the shadows fall, bend over willow and weep for me
Yes
song performed by by Ella Fitzgerald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Willow Weep For Me
(1932) ann ronell
Willow weep for me, willow weep for me,
Bend your branches green along the stream that runs to sea,
Listen to my plea, listen willow weep for me,
Gone my lovers dream, lovely summer dream,
Gone and left me here to weep my tears into the stream,
Sad as I can be - hear me willow and weep for me.
Whisper to the wind to say that love has sinned
To leave my heart aching and making this moan,
Murmur to the night to hide her starry light,
So none will find me sighing and crying all alone,
Weeping willow tree, weep in sympathy,
Bend your branches down along the ground and cover me,
When the shadows fall, bend oh willow and weep for me.
To leave my heart aching and making this moan,
So none will find me sighing and crying all alone,
Weeping willow tree, weep in sympathy,
Bend your branches down along the ground and cover me,
When the shadows fall, bend oh willow,
Bend oh willow and weep for me.
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Death-Parting
LEAVES and rain and the days of the year,
(Water-willow and wellaway,)
All these fall, and my soul gives ear,
And she is hence who once was here.
(With a wind blown night and day.)
Ah! but now, for a secret sign,
(The willow's wan and the water white,)
In the held breath of the day's decline
Her very face seemed pressed to mine.
(With a wind blown day and night.)
O love, of my death my life is fain;
(The willows wave on the water-way,)
Your cheek and mine are cold in the rain,
But warm they'll be when we meet again.
(With a wind blown night and day.)
Mists are heaved and cover the sky;
(The willows wail in the waning light,)
O loose your lips, leave space for a sigh,—
They seal my soul, I cannot die.
(With a wind blown day and night.)
Leaves and rain and the days of the year,
(Water-willow and wellaway,)
All still fall, and I still give ear,
And she is hence, and I am here.
(With a wind blown night and day.)
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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On the Bluff
O grandly flowing River!
O silver-gliding River!
Thy springing willows shiver
In the sunset as of old;
They shiver in the silence
Of the willow-whitened islands,
While the sun-bars and the sand-bars
Fill air and wave with gold.
O gay, oblivious River!
O sunset-kindled River!
Do you remember ever
The eyes and skies so blue
On a summer day that shone here,
When we were all alone here,
And the blue eyes were too wise
To speak the love they knew?
O stern impassive River!
O still unanswering River!
The shivering willows quiver
As the night-winds moan and rave.
From the past a voice is calling,
From heaven a star is falling,
And dew swells in the bluebells
Above her hillside grave.
Voice In The Wind
I could hear her whispering under the trees
Whenever the breeze crept in through the pines,
And then when the Moon rose out of the sea
It soughed and it sifted out from the vines,
I'd stop and I'd listen, straining to hear
What the voice would sigh in the bright green sedge,
‘Ah me! ' it started, then faded away,
Went searching for dreams at the water's edge.
I'd follow it down through the rocks and pools
As the tide swept in, and over my feet,
Down where the crabs and the lobsters ruled
A ledge that was straddled by Neptune's seat.
The tremulous voice in the runnels there
Was inarticulate, ravaged with pain,
But the breakers crashed, and they drowned it out
When I called for the creature's name, in vain.
But back in the shack on that lonely shore
Where I'd fled to, after the accident,
And lying awake I could hear the roar
Of the crash, the train where the tracks were bent,
And Jill was alive in my mind, alight
As she'd whispered, just as we overturned:
‘I want you to know that I'm yours tonight,
Though the stars have fallen, the heavens burned! '
Each morning I'd stare at the plaster wall
But thinking of nothing, my mind a blank,
I wouldn't go anywhere else at all,
The funeral church had been dark and dank.
Her father had hated the sight of me,
The mother had blamed for her daughter's life,
They'd pushed us together, couldn't they see?
She hated them both and had paid the price!
My world is haunted by shades from the past
My future has limited time to play,
I hear a whisper arise from the sea
At the end of every gruelling day.
I hear the whisper and know it's Jill,
Her spirit is free in the fading light,
I know what she's saying, whispering still:
‘I want you to know that I'm yours tonight! '
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Whispering
Whispering while you cuddle near me
Whispering so no one can hear me
Each little whisper seems to cheer me
I know its true dear....theres no one but you
Im a singin
Whispering why youll never leave me
Whispering why youll never grieve me
Whisper and say that you believe me
Whispering that I love you
(instrumental break)
Whispering while you cuddle near me
Whispering so no one can hear me
Each little whisper seems to cheer me
Just whispering that I love you
song performed by by Louis Armstrong
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Angler's Song
From the river's plashy bank,
Where the sedge grows green and rank,
And the twisted woodbine springs,
Upward speeds the morning lark
To its silver cloud -- and hark!
On his way the woodman sings.
On the dim and misty lakes
Gloriously the morning breaks,
And the eagle's on his cloud:--
Whilst the wind, with sighing, wooes
To its arms the chaste cold ooze,
And the rustling reeds pipe loud.
Where the embracing ivy holds
Close the hoar elm in its folds,
In the meadow's fenny land,
And the winding river sweeps
Through its shallows and still deeps,--
Silent with my rod I stand.
But when sultry suns are high
Underneath the oak I lie
As it shades the water's edge,
And I mark my line, away
In the wheeling eddy, play,
Tangling with the river sedge.
When the eye of evening looks
On green woods and winding brooks,
And the wind sighs o'er the lea,--
Woods and streams,-- I leave you then,
While the shadow in the glen
Lengthens by the greenwood tree.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Voice Of The Willows
Hiding away from the sunlight,
Close by a rippling stream,
Hallowed by childish fancies
And many a waking dream;
There is my royal palace,
Within it my regal throne,
The former, a grave of willows,
The latter, a mossy stone.
And legends of hope did the willows tell
To my childish ears, in that rustic dell.
Here, in my sunny childhood,
I dreamed in my mystic home,
Weaving the fairy garlands
To wear in the years to come.
Friendship, and love, and honour,
They all were to be my own;
The future was strewn with roses,
As I dreamed on my mossy stone.
And still through the leaves, as they fluttered or fell
The breezes sang, in the willow dell.
Visions of hope are departed,
Fairy-like dreams have fled.
The thorns still remain, but the roses,
Like friendship and love, are dead.
The breezes sigh through the willows,
I ponder and dream alone
Of the life beyond the river,
As I sit on my mossy stone.
And the breezes sound like a funeral knell,
As they sigh and sob, through the willow dell.
poem by Thomas E. Spencer
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Along the river
Water bends, rolls down
to fiind a place to banks,
waves break by stones
and curl up around them,
yellow poplars,
that watch the river, tremble,
drooping willows wash their locks
in hesitating water.
I remember how I was fishing
under shaded banks
with my friends.
Fishes were avoiding my fishing rod
and were inviting me to the competition with them.
From the river that winds tremblingly,
I hear melancholic verse of the natives
gone to the fishing with the boat.I have felt asleep.
It has seemed to me that a beautiful gondola with a miraculous fairy
has crossed the river.
I was charmed by the beauty of the fairy
that has glittered on the lustre of the water.
On the bank, I have done token to the gondola
and the oarsman has brought the gondola near the bank.
At the light of the torch, I have caught the hand of the fairy
and I have invited her on the bank.
A spark has died out in her heart,
bugle of silver has blown long
the disappearance of the gondola.
The fishers from the village have woken me up:
„ It was getting late.You have to go home”.
poem by Valentin Gabriel Cristea
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Where Wild Dandelions Dwell
Brambles, weeds and thorny thistles
Poke their heads from chain link wires
Whispering arcane epistles
Wind and summer rain inspires
If a passerby should linger
Hoping to observe their sounds
They withdraw their tapered fingers
Crouching lower to the ground
Man was never wont to enter
Secrets of low wayside chaff
He prefers a richer mentor
Ruby red or golden calf
It may be grace dwells in humble
Unkempt much neglected dells
Hid behind a stone wall crumbled
Where wild dandelions dwell
I have ceased to walk on highways
Graced with blooms of finest breeds
Now I creep in hidden byways
Hoping to hear songs of reeds
Brambles, weeds and thorny thistles
Poke their heads from chain link wires
Whispering arcane epistles
Wind and summer rain inspires.
poem by Liilia Talts Morrison
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Dream River
WIND-SILVERED willows hedge the stream,
And all within is hushed and cool.
The water, in an endless dream,
Goes sliding down from pool to pool.
And every pool a sapphire is,
From shadowy deep to sunlit edge,
Ribboned around with irises
And cleft with emerald spears of sedge.
O, every morn the winds are stilled,
The sunlight falls in amber bars.
O, every night the pools are filled
With silver brede of shaken stars.
O, every morn the sparrow flings
His elfin trills athwart the hush,
And here unseen at eve there sings
One crystal-throated hermit-thrush.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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A Day
Written by john curulewski
Lead vocals by john curulewski
Woke up in rainy autumn
Morning mist beginning to wane
And the birds of the winged trees
Calling my name
Care less the clouds above me
The wind is gently lifting my hair
Where the rivers of the wind fall light rain
Now stand bare
Listen to the flowing streams
Golden in the shelter of my dreams
Playing a song on the meadow that echoes with love
Walk alone through the garden
The leaves are wet with mornings tear
And the whispering of someone
Is drawing me near
Content to rest awhile
Pondering the motion of time
Over unforgotten memories
Dipped in wine
Listen to the flowing streams
Golden in the shelter of my dreams
Playing a song on the meadow that echoes with love
[extended instrumental solos]
The God of dusk is falling around me
The night air now restless and dank
Yet the fields are specked with flowers
Few and rank
Moon reflecting off the water
Rippling an image to me
Of the way that it is
And the way that its going to be
Listen to the flowing streams
Golden in the shelter of my dreams
Playing a song on the meadow that echoes with love
song performed by by Styx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Lady To Her Guitar
For him who struck thy foreign string,
I ween this heart has ceased to care;
Then why dost thou such feelings bring
To my sad spirit—old Guitar?
It is as if the warm sunlight
In some deep glen should lingering stay,
When clouds of storm, or shades of night,
Have wrapt the parent orb away.
It is as if the glassy brook
Should image still its willows fair,
Though years ago the woodman's stroke
Laid low in dust their Dryad-hair.
Even so, Guitar, thy magic tone
Hath moved the tear and waked the sigh;
Hath bid the ancient torrent moan,
Although its very source is dry.
poem by Emily Jane Brontë
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A Tall Story part two
There is a bridge that crosses over a river
A river that is eerie and makes you quiver
With the light of the moon the river will gleam
and a boat will go sailing, on its own down
stream. The mist will come from out of the trees
and horrible sounds can be heard in the breeze.
It sounded like cats caught up in a fight a claim
for territory in the dead of night, but cats never fight
on the waters edge just in case they fall over the ledge.
A river bank full of matted reeds where plants had died
without dispersing their seeds.A man dressed in green
who paddles the stream who can be seen clear in the
moonlit beam.Sometimes you hear him digging on
the side of the river bank, could this be true or is it
some sort of a prank
A river full of alge green and that's how it had
always been. No carp, no bream no fish to fish not
even a place for a secret wish.
No river bank wildlife to give it grace, just run over the
bridge and get out of this place.
The story tells of a robber who stood about three feet
tall and because of his height he couldent climbe over
the wall. Now behind the wall was the river which spread
down far and wide and the man in green had a problem
because he could'nt get to the other side.So he hid the
loot inside his boot and started to dig under the wall
but as he dug the water flooded in and he sank to
the bottom of the pool.
Apart from one thing he could not swim and the weight
of the loot that was in his boot no doubt made him take
root.If you go to the river and see the man in green, then
please come back and tell us what you have seen.
This is a tall story one with a short tale, I am sorry it
didn't excit you, but my next one wont fail.
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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Spring Evening Chant
Let the breeze blow,
Let the river flow,
In the spring evening
Let the moon come slow.
The music of the fallen leaves around
Or when they rolling on the forest ground,
Does it remind you the song
I've sung in a whispering sound?
The bird comes back to its nest,
And the sun sets down in the west,
The wrapper of the sky is disappeared,
Still I find in my mind unrest.
Let the breeze blow inside our mind's hollow,
Let the river flow and carry our heart's sorrow,
In the spring evening
Let the moon pass its way slow.
poem by Riffat Samad
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In The Valley
Said the yellow-haired Spirit of Spring
To the white-footed Spirit of Snow,
“On the wings of the tempest take wing,
And leave me the valleys, and go.”
And, straightway, the streams were unchained,
And the frost-fettered torrents broke free,
And the strength of the winter-wind waned
In the dawn of a light on the sea.
Then a morning-breeze followed and fell,
And the woods were alive and astir
With the pulse of a song in the dell,
And a whisper of day in the fir.
Swift rings of sweet water were rolled
Down the ways where the lily-leaves grew,
And the green, and the white, and the gold,
Were wedded with purple and blue.
But the lips of the flower of the rose
Said, “where is the ending hereof?
Is it sweet with you, life, at the close?
Is it sad to be emptied of love?”
And the voice of the flower of the peach
Was tender and touching in tone,
“When each has been grafted on each,
It is sorrow to live on alone.”
Then the leaves of the flower of the vine
Said, “what will there be in the day
When the reapers are red with my wine,
And the forests are yellow and grey?”
And the tremulous flower of the quince
Made answer, “three seasons ago
My sisters were star-like, but since,
Their graves have been made in the snow.”
Then the whispering flower of the fern
Said, “who will be sad at the death,
When Summer blows over the burn,
With the fierceness of fire in her breath?”
And the mouth of the flower of the sedge
Was opened to murmur and sigh,
“Sweet wind-breaths that pause at the edge
Of the nightfall, and falter, and die.”
poem by Henry Kendall
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The Lady to Her Guitar
For him who struck thy foreign string,
I ween this heart has ceased to care;
Then why dost thou such feelings bring
To my sad spirit—old Guitar?
It is as if the warm sunlight
In some deep glen should lingering stay,
When clouds of storm, or shades of night,
Have wrapt the parent orb away.
It is as if the glassy brook
Should image still its willows fair,
Though years ago the woodman's stroke
Laid low in dust their Dryad-hair.
Even so, Guitar, thy magic tone
Hath moved the tear and waked the sigh;
Hath bid the ancient torrent moan,
Although its very source is dry.
poem by Emily Brontë from Selections from the literary remains of Emily and Anne Brontë (1850)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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