The Prophecy Of St. Oran: Part II
I.
THERE was a windless mere, on whose smooth breast
A little island, flushed with purple bloom,
Lay gently cradled like a moorhen's nest:
It glowed like some rich jewel 'mid the gloom
Of sluggish leagues of peat and black morass,
Without or shrub or tree or blade of grass.
II.
But on the isle itself the birch was seen
With its ethereal foliage, like some haze
Floating among the rowan's vivid green;
The ground with fern all feathered, and ablaze
With heath's and harebell's hyacinthine hue,
Was mirrored in the wave's intenser blue.
III.
This was the immemorial isle of graves,
Here, under nameless mound and dateless stone,
The generations, like successive waves,
Had rolled one o'er the other, and had gone
As these go, indistinguishably fused
Their separate lives in common death confused.
IV.
And here amid the dead Columba chose
To found God's holy house and sow His word;
Already here and there the walls arose,
Built from the stones imbedded in the sward;
These did the natives without mortar pile,
As was the ancient custom of their isle.
V.
For many of them to the work were won
By reverence for the saint, and thus apace
The chapel grew which they had first begun
As dedicate to God's perpetual praise;
So many of the monks again were free
To give thought wholly to their ministry.
VI.
And ever first in hastening to his task
St. Oran was, though last to seek repose;
Columba's best beloved, he still would ask
For heaviest share of duty, while he chose
Rude penances, till shadow-like he grew
With fasts and vigils that the flesh subdue.
VII.
Yet there was that which would not be subdued--
A shape, a presence haunting every dream;
Fair as the moon that shines above a flood,
And ever trembles on the trembling stream;
Sweet as some gust of fragrance, unaware
Stealing upon us on the summer air.
VIII.
Even so it stole upon his ravished heart,
Suffusing every fibre with delight,
Till from his troubled slumber he would start,
And, as with ague shivering and affright,
Catch broken speech low murmuring in his ears,
And feel his eyelids ache with unshed tears.
IX.
But it befell one windy afternoon,
While monks and men were busied with the roof,
Laying the beams through which the sun and moon
Might shed their light as yet without reproof,
That there came one across the lonely waste
Toward these men of God, crying in haste,--
X.
'Ye say ye came to save us, save us then!
Save us if ye spake truth, and not a lie!
Famine and fever stalk among us,--men,
Women, and children are struck down and die!
For lo, the murrain smites our cowering sheep,
The fishers haul no fish from out the deep.
XI.
'Ye tell us that your God did multiply
A few small fishes, wherewithal He fed
A multitude; in sooth, if 'tis no lie,
Then come, ye holy men, and give us bread!
For they are starving by the waterside,--
Come then, and give us bread,' he loudly cried.
XII.
He was a man inspiring dread surprise,
Half-naked, with long glibs of bristling hair
In fiery meshes tumbling o'er his eyes,
Which, like a famished wolf's from out its lair,
Glanced restlessly; his dog behind him came,
Whose lolling tongue hung down like scarlet flame.
XIII.
'Let me arise, and go to them withal!'
Cried Oran, flinging down his implement:
'This heavy tribulation is a call
From the Most High; a blessed instrument
To compass their salvation: let me go
Teach them what mercy worketh in their woe.'
XIV.
'Go then, my son, and God go with thee still,
While I abide to speed His temple here,'
Said St. Columba; 'and thy basket fill
With herbs and cordials, also wine to cheer
And bread to feed the poor, so that their days
May still endure to God's eternal praise.'
XV.
Then Oran and that wild man forth did fare,
And o'er the little lake they rowed in haste,
And mounting each a small and shaggy mare,
They ambled o'er that solitary waste,
Then through a sterile glen their road did lie
Whose shrouded peaks loomed awfully on high.
XVI.
When for a mile or two they thus had gone,
The mountains opened wide on either hand,
And lo, amid those labyrinths of stone
The sea had got entangled in the land,
And turned and twisted, struggling to get free,
And be once more the immeasurable sea.
XVII.
It was a sorcerous, elemental place,
O'er which there now came rushing from the plain--
Like some dark host whom yelling victors chase--
A moving pillar of resistless rain
Shivering the gleaming lances in its flight
Against the bastions of each monstrous height.
XVIII.
Fast, fast it raced before the roaring gale,
With shrieks and frenzied howlings that did shake
The very stones with long-resounding wail,
And in outlying gorges would it wake
The startled echo's sympathetic scream,
Then whirling on would vanish like a dream,--
XIX.
Would vanish dream-like, whither no man knows,
Fading afar in vaporous gulfs of light,
While the wet mountain-tops flushed like a rose,
And following the spent tempest in its flight
Its hues ethereal mantling o'er the gloom,
There glowed the rainbow's evanescent bloom.
XX.
And while that rain still drenched him to the skin,
St. Oran, unappalled, intoned a psalm,
And lifting up his voice amidst the din,
He sang, 'We laud Thee, Lord, through storm and calm,
In the revolving stars we see Thine hand,
The sun and moon rise as Thou dost command.
XXI.
'We laud Thee for the evening and the morn,
And the prolific seasons' changing boon,
For singing-birds, and flowers, and ripening corn,
For tides that rise and fall beneath the moon;
As in a mirror darkling do we see
The shadow that Thou castest on the sea.'
XXII.
Up many a wild ascent, down many a steep
Clothed with scant herbage, rode that battered pair,
Where lay the bleaching bones of mangled sheep,
And carrion crows wheeled hoarsely in the air;
At last through mist and darkness they espied
Small lights that twinkled by the waterside.
XXIII.
There in dark turf-built hovels close to earth
Lay the poor sufferers on their beds of heath,
Gnawed to the very bone by cruel dearth,
Cold to the marrow with approaching death;
Thither came Oran like some vision bright,
And ministered to each one through the night.
XXIV.
And so dispensing alms he went and came,
Stooping to enter the last house of all;
There, by the peat-fire's orange-coloured flame,
Whose flashes fitfully did rise and fall
On the smoke-blackened rafters--sat a crone
Ancient it might be as the lichened stone.
XXV.
Fast through her bony fingers flies the thread,
And as her foot still turns the whirring wheel,
She seems to spin the yarn of quick and dead!
But oh, what makes St. Oran's senses reel?
Whose is the shape clad in its golden hair
That turns and tosses on the pallet there?
XXVI.
Like some wan water lily veiled in mist
When puffs of wind its tender petals shake,
Whose chalice by the shining moonbeams kissed
Sways to and fro upon the swelling lake,
So white--so wan--so wonderfully fair,
Showed Mona tossing mid her golden hair.
XXVII.
What should he do? Ah, whither should he turn?
Why had God let this trial come again?
Her beauty, half-revealed, did straightly burn
Through his hot eyeballs to his kindling brain.
Was it his duty to go hence or stay?
He wavered--gazed on her--then turned away.
XXVIII.
But that old woman tottered to the door
And clutched his cassock with a shaking hand,
And mumbled, 'Priest, ah! dost thou shun the poor?
They say that ye go bragging through the land
Of some new God called Christian Charity;
But in our need ye turn from us and fly.'
XXIX.
So spake the crone, but Oran bowed his head
And murmured, 'If thou bid'st me, I abide.'
With downcast eyes he turned towards the bed
In fervent prayer low kneeling by its side:
At last he rose, pale, cold, and deadly still,
With heart subdued to his stern Maker's will.
XXX.
Thus through her fever did he tend the maid,
Who babbled wildly in delirious trance
Of her lost home, and her loved kindred laid
In alien earth--and of a countenance
Fair as a spirit's comforting her pain,
But soon withdrawn to its own heaven again.
XXXI.
All this unflinching would the monk endure,
And having cured her body's sickness, strove
With double zeal her sicker soul to cure:
But when he told her of the Saviour's love,
Of sin, and its atonement, and free grace,
She looked in puzzled wonder on his face.
XXXII.
She could not understand his mournful creed,
Nor knew, poor child, of what she should repent,
Nor why her heart was wicked, and had need
That some poor pitying God should once have spent
His blood for her five hundred years ago--
Ancestral voices never told her so!
XXXIII.
She could not understand, but she could feel!
And while she sat before him by the flame
The pathos of his pleading voice would steal
Sweeter than sweetest music through her frame,
And as the ocean murmur in a shell
Through her dim soul his solemn accents swell.
XXXIV.
He was the air she breathed--all living things
Were pale reflections of him--as the hart
In desert places thirsts for water-springs,
Even thus for him she thirsted in her heart;
To her it seemed as if life's aim and end
Were just to lay her hand within his hand.
XXXV.
Her eyes were full of love as stars of light,
And pierced the cold obstructive atmosphere
Of his joy-killing creed, and did ignite
His inmost spirit of sense with fire as clear
And radiant as their own--their beaming looks
Mingled as flames of fire or meeting brooks.
XXXVI.
Was he not young and beautiful?--in face
Like to that radiant god whose flame divine
The Druid worshipped in those younger days
Ere sin had stamped the green earth with its sign,
Had made the loveliness of flowers a snare,
And bid frail man of woman's love beware.
XXXVII.
Oh, not for him, through all the lonely years
Never for him a woman's love might bloom;
Her smiles would never cheer him, nor her tears
Fall softly on his unlamented tomb;
Never till quenched in death's supreme eclipse
His lips would know the sweetness of her lips.
XXXVIII.
Oh God! would nothing quench that secret fire,
Nor yet assuage that hunger of the heart?
To feel this flagellation of desire,
To be so near, yet evermore apart,
Never to clasp this woman as a wife--
This was the crowning penance of his life.
XXXIX.
But lo! one day at dusk they were alone,
The rain was beating down on roof and wall,
The round of earth with solid rock and stone
Had turned phantasmal in its misty pall:
They were alone, but neither spake a word--
Only their hearts in throbbing might be heard.
XL.
Whose is that low involuntary cry
That like a flash of lightning shook each frame
With thrill electric? Simultaneously
Their yearning lips had sobbed each other's name!
With swift instinctive dread they move apart
While magnet-like each draws the other's heart.
XLI.
What boots it thus to struggle with his sin,
So much more sweet than all his virtues were?
Like a great flood let all her love roll in
And his soul stifle mid her golden hair!
And so he barters his eternal bliss
For the divine delirium of her kiss!
XLII.
What cares he for his soul's salvation now?
Let it go to perdition evermore
For breaking that accursed monastic vow
Which cankers a man's nature to the core;
For he had striven as never mortal strove,
But than his Lord a mightier lord was Love.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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Related quotes
Riverside Walk
The wildering flowers bloom beautiful and gay
Along the green banks of the water way
And joyful songbirds whistling merrily
With tiny hearts brimful of ecstasy.
And all seem perfect save for water flowing gray
But pollution is a common thing nowaday
And keeping rivers clean don't appeal to modern man
As it's not part of his progression plan.
From her nest midst water reeds dark moorhen fly
And she utter forth a shrill like chirping cry
A warning to her little moorhen chicks
To leave their nest and head for cover quick.
From reed built nest four young dark moorhens creep
With bright orange bills and as they swim they cheep
And head for cover towards the river bank
And hide themselves midst rushes green and rank.
I walked along in pensive solitude
And a quarter mile down stream from Moorhen brood
I came upon what I don't often times see
A mallard out swimming with family.
From mother duck a warning sound did ring
She beat the water with her flapping wings
And her seven ducklings her signal did obey
And dived under water and hid themselves away.
The mother duck was circling in the sky
Whilst all of the time on me she kept an eye
And her anxiety for her family did grow
And she quacked aloud warning them not to show.
And as I walked homeward in the gloam of day
The wildborn birds piped with the joys of May
And my thoughts were of wild duck and moorhen
And tainted water for man a shameful sin.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Bangle Sellers
Bangle sellers are we who bear
Our shining loads to the temple fair...
Who will buy these delicate, bright
Rainbow-tinted circles of light?
Lustrous tokens of radiant lives,
For happy daughters and happy wives.
Some are meet for a maiden's wrist,
Silver and blue as the mountain mist,
Some are flushed like the buds that dream
On the tranquil brow of a woodland stream,
Some are aglow wth the bloom that cleaves
To the limpid glory of new born leaves
Some are like fields of sunlit corn,
Meet for a bride on her bridal morn,
Some, like the flame of her marriage fire,
Or, rich with the hue of her heart's desire,
Tinkling, luminous, tender, and clear,
Like her bridal laughter and bridal tear.
Some are purple and gold flecked grey
For she who has journeyed through life midway,
Whose hands have cherished, whose love has blest,
And cradled fair sons on her faithful breast,
And serves her household in fruitful pride,
And worships the gods at her husband's side.
poem by Sarojini Naidu
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A Hunting Song
Hunters, where does Hope nest?
Not in the half-oped breast,
Nor the young rose,
Nor April sunrise—those
With a quick wing she brushes,
The wide world through,
Greets with the throat of thrushes,
Fades from as fast as dew.
But, would you spy her sleeping,
Cradled warm,
Look in the breast of weeping,
The tree stript by storm;
But, would you bind her fast,
Yours at last,
Bed-mate and lover,
Gain the last headland bare
That the cold tides cover,
There may you capture her, there,
Where the sea gives to the ground
Only the drift of the drowned.
Yet, if she slips you, once found,
Push to her uttermost lair
In the low house of despair.
There will she watch by your head,
Sing to you till you be dead,
Then, with your child in her breast,
In another heart build a new nest.
poem by Edith Wharton
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Summer
Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come,
For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom,
And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest,
And love is burning diamonds in my true lover's breast;
She sits beneath the whitethorn a-plaiting of her hair,
And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair;
I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest,
And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast.
The clock-a-clay is creeping on the open bloom of May,
The merry bee is trampling the pinky threads all day,
And the chaffinch it is brooding on its grey mossy nest
In the whitethorn bush where I will lean upon my lover's breast;
I'll lean upon her breast and I'll whisper in her ear
That I cannot get a wink o'sleep for thinking of my dear;
I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away
Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day.
poem by John Clare (1865)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Jewel
Say a big thanks to thy jewel
For your today's handsome
Thanks her for bye-gone days rebuke
For you are not the glory call short
Say a big thanks to thy jewel
For making your shoulders wings
That now in the sky like birds
Say a big thanks to thy jewel
For being a witch to make you rein
Say a big thanks to thy jewel
For being unkind for your kindness
Say a big thanks to thy jewel
..hawking locust'eans for you not to...
Say a big thanks to thy jewel
For burning extra woods
Say a big thanks to thy jewel
For being blind for your goodness
Say a big thanks to thy jewel
For ashes for your existence
Say a big thanks to thy jewel
Children with a piece of brain
Say a big thanks to thy jewel
All ye children!
That's of an ovule conceived
Always thanks your jewel
Whenever comes that memoir
That can't be erased in life dairy
In it death life call on her to dine
Say a big thanks to thy jewel
Ne'er speaks of her a broken lips
Say a big thanks to thy jewel
Always let her know, she's worth living
For all her yesteryear year fire bath
Are thy today's concrete
Say a big thanks to thy jewel
Wherever she is
poem by sanusi samuel Akanni
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Innocence Restored
Descending from the darkness,
an angel crouches in the shadows;
purity cradled by her tender breast,
somnolent from demon’s sedition.
For this little one was The Chosen,
revered for her simple innocence;
unknowing, beautiful and chaste,
ready to be offered up to Him.
A sip from the bloodied chalice,
stripped her of her virtuousness.
She lay on the cold black altar,
and tearfully awaited her vile fate.
From out of the depths of the gloom,
she saw the angel of darkness descend.
Screams bellowed out and fire roared;
demons spoke in tongues and clashed.
Sinking into the scarlet soaked soil,
Evil and His beasts recoil into their hell;
free is the soul of the little lost girl,
and innocence restored by an angel.
She crouches in the dark shadows;
purity cradled by her tender breast,
somnolent from demon’s sedition.
http: //allpoetry.com/poem/4614797 with picture
poem by Kim Schilling
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Lines On A Visit To Port Fairy
I walked Pathway that led through muttonbird colony
On Island off Port Fairy by the sea
In latter March a bright though breezy day
With voice of seagull ringing down the bay.
On Easter Sunday nineteen eighty nine
A breezy day of spasmodic sun shine
Sweet scent of sea and tide sound in my ear
And weather pleasant for the time of year.
Muttonbirds dig their nest holes in the ground
And their nest burrows were plentiful all around
And I quote from ornithologists who know best
That this year same Muttonbird use last year's nest.
Parent muttonbirds gone fishing out to sea
Leave behind them their nest bound families
Their three months old nestlings unable yet to fly
Future earth born distant travellers of the sky.
In metre deep burrow in fore shore sand
I searched along it's bottom with my hand
Felt the soft down feathers of a sea bird's breast
A young near full fledged nestling in it's nest.
In Island off Port Fairy by the sea
With voice of seagull ringing down the bay
I walked Pathway that led through muttonbird colony
On Easter Sunday quite a pleasant day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Nora's Vow
Hear what Highland Nora said, -
'The Earlie's son I will not wed,
Should all the race of nature die,
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands both far and near,
That ever valour lost o won,
I would not wed the Earlie's son.' -
'A maiden's vows,' old Callum spoke,
'Are lightly made and lightly broke;
The heather on the mountain's height
Begins to bloom in purple light;
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae;
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the Earlie's son.' -
'The swan,' she said, 'the lake's clear breast
May barter for the eagle's nest;
The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn;
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly;
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie's son.'
Still in the water-lily's shade
Her wonted nest the wild-swan made;
Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;
To shun the clash of foeman's steel,
No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel;
But Nora's heart is lost and won,
She's wedded to the Earlie's son!
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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To A Nephew
it is upon my calling that you are here today.
i am very happy.
i am seeing a very tall man now
towering like a tree.
look at this place this island
the flowers no longer bloom
and the trees are shedding off their leaves
the corn seeds that i have sown a month ago
have not grown
and the river on the other side has dried up
the sun scorches this place
and the moon does not like to rest on the hills
let me take you to the window of this house
for you to see the rainbow connecting this island
to another island
this is the bridge between us
and i am giving you the power to cross the sea
of this rift
tonight in this harrowing darkness
we shall cross to the other side and leave this island for good
you shall own the island and sow the corn seeds again
the trees shall bow before you and the flowers shall bloom again
the rivers shall have their water and the hills are ready for the moon
and then i will be gone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Triad
Three sang of love together: one with lips
Crimson, with cheeks and bosom in a glow,
Flushed to the yellow hair and finger-tips;
And one there sang who soft and smooth as snow
Bloomed like a tinted hyacinth at a show;
And one was blue with famine after love,
Who like a harpstring snapped rang harsh and low
The burden of what those were singing of.
One shamed herself in love; one temperately
Grew gross in soulless love, a sluggish wife;
One famished died for love. Thus two of three
Took death for love and won him after strife;
One droned in sweetness like a fattened bee:
All on the threshold, yet all short of life.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Inside Your Armpits....
the years that you pour
on that bottle
are many,
accumulating sands,
white,
smooth to the taste of your eyes
sometimes you touch them and you let them slip
you grasp for breath
and so you gently return them back
like robins to their
nest
you contemplate of breaking the hourglass
and then
go away like a stranger
despite
time still stays beside you
inside your
armpits.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sonnet
SHE loves me! From her own bliss-breathing lips
The live confession came, like rich perfume
From crimson petals bursting into bloom!
And still my heart at the remembrance skips
Like a young lion, and my tongue too trips
As drunk with joy! while every object seen
In life’s diurnal round wears in its mien
A clear assurance that no doubts eclipse.
And if the common things of nature now
Are like old faces flushed with new delight,
Much more the consciousness of that rich vow
Deepens the beauteous, and refines the bright,
While throned I seem on love’s divinest height
’Mid all the glories glowing round its brow.
poem by Charles Harpur
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Purple Rain
(prince)
I never meant to cause you any trouble
I never meant to cause you any pain
I only ever wanted to see you laughing
Only want to see you laughing in the purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
Only want to see you underneath the purple rain
Honey, I never wanted to be your wicked lover
Only wanted to be some kind of friend
I could never leave you for another
Its such a shame our friendship had to end
Purple rain, purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
Only wanted to see you underneath the purple rain
Honey, I know, I know, I know times are changing
This time we all reach out for something new
That means you too
You say youre looking for a leader,
But you cant seem to make up your mind
But you better open it up wide, let it guide you
To the purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
Purple rain, purple rain
Only want to see you, baby, in the purple rain
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Purple Raindrops and Yellow Spears
Like a front from the south,
gloom sweeps over me,
with little heed it blocks the sun,
as purple raindrops fall around me.
as I stand alone, cold and numb,
I struggle to but breathe.
I have no reason to be sad,
I am of the fortunate ones,
life seems to be, but a drug,
now in high, later in down,
my purple drops and yellow spears
no weatherman can predict
Like a spear from the sky
joy strikes me as if lighting
separating my sky of gloom
as my heart fills with warmth
as composure takes hold of me
as I can once again breathe.
poem by Quintin van Deventer
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If Purple Could Heal You
If Purple Could Heal You
By Tameka Callaway
One day, you told me that Purple is your favorite color.
I wish that purple can heal you
If purple could heal you, I would give purple flowers everyday
in a purple vase that will make your day
I would wear purple lip stick so I come leave kisses on you face
Wish there was purple days and purple nights
If only purple could heal you, I will give a purple glass of purple kool aid with purple ice so you would have a purple tong
I would go to the end of the world to find you the perfect purple yarn so I could make you a purple body suit from head to toe
Oh how I would give you a purple world
But for now, I just give you a purple poem
I love you
poem by Tameka Callaway
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The Blue Jay
With her light purple breast that gleams
a blue jay descends to the fallow land
where she dances around in sorrow
like a welding flame that impudently trembles
up and down where her nest was
in the burnt out thicket
and now there is only dust and ash
when sadly she leaves screaming sounds
and keeps fluttering to and thro.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Purple sunbird changes hue
The purple sunbird dances
dressed in shades of black
then the sun spots her
turning her into a mesmerising purple
so do we change tones
when love stops by
nudging gently at the elbow
reminding of gifts to bestow
in times of joy or sorrow
to many a friend or foe
be the purple sunbird
dancing and get others to dance with you
coz there's much to give
and lots to forgive
the purple sunbird dances on
there's much to celebrate in this unhappy world..
poem by Sreelekha Premjit
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Alone iam alone in alone island
Alone iam alone in alone island
Alone mew on alone palm tree in alone island
Alone shark surrounding alone island
Alone boat far away from alone island
Alone iam dying alone in alone island
Alone iam alone in alone island
poem by Mohammed AlBalushi
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A View From Here (Part 2)
two days after
the sparrow has a nest
upon a twig
covered by leaves
the other sparrow
waits by the sill of my
window
looking over
a windless view
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What is Purple?
Purple is a mystery.
Purple is happiness.
Purple is home.
Purple is a sanctuary.
And Purple is my own.
A little place in my mind.
A little sunshine in my day.
Purple is who I am.
And Purple is magic.
poem by Kylee Bartz
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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