Lines -- Far, Far Away, O Ye
I.
Far, far away, O ye
Halcyons of Memory,
Seek some far calmer nest
Than this abandoned breast!
No news of your false spring
To my heart’s winter bring,
Once having gone, in vain
Ye come again.
II.
Vultures, who build your bowers
High in the Future’s towers,
Withered hopes on hopes are spread!
Dying joys, choked by the dead,
Will serve your beaks for prey
Many a day.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Related quotes
Heart is tiny, Hopes are high
Heart is tiny, Hopes are high
On top of the world, wants to fly.
Wants to surf, in mid of the ocean;
Wants to climb, Highest the mountain;
Always willing, to touch the sky.
Heart is tiny, Hopes are high
Wants to shine, like a bright star;
Wants to race in, the worlds' best car;
Lighter as feather, wants to glide.
Heart is tiny, Hopes are high
All things happen, On its commands;
Every thing comes to, When it demands;
Whole beauty of world, wants in eyes.
Heart is tiny, Hopes are high
Better if it does some good deed
Helps the poor and who are in need
Accepts the truth and denies the lies.
Heart is tiny, Hopes are high
- S.D. Tiwari
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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Song II
ALL my heart is stirring lightly
Like dim violets winter-bound,
Quickening as they feel the brightly
Glowing sunlight underground.
Yea, this drear and silent bosom,
Hushed as snow-hid grove but now,
Breaketh into leaf and blossom
Like a gleaming vernal bough.
Oh the singing, singing, singing!
Callow hopes that thrill my breast!
Can the lark of love be winging
Back to its abandoned nest?
poem by Mathilde Blind
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All My Heart Is Stirring Lightly
All my heart is stirring lightly
Like dim violets winter-bound,
Quickening as they feel the brightly
Glowing sunlight underground.
Yea, this drear and silent bosom,
Hushed as snow-hid grove but now,
Breaketh into leaf and blossom
Like a gleaming vernal bough.
Oh the singing, singing, singing!
Callow hopes that thrill my breast!
Can the lark of love be winging
Back to its abandoned nest?
poem by Mathilde Blind
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To Thought
I may not give to thee
One hour again;
The past is not for me,
It burns my brain.
Thy haunts are treasuries now
I may not see;
Dark cypress binds my brow,
The willow tree.
And yet I linger here,
With thee would stay;
Thy shrine! receive my tear,
My parting lay.
Time wings his flight along
O'er memory's glass;
Years given to mirth and song
Too quickly pass.
Few—few—how few my lot!
Like early flowers,
Which blow and are forgot
Mid summer bowers.
My infant hopes and joys,
Too bright—too brief—
I flung with childhood's toys,
To nurse my grief.
And what my riper years—
An aching breast,
Cradled by hopes and fears,
Still asking rest.
Farewell!—a long farewell!
Pale thought,—we part—
Oblivion's waters swell
Around my heart.
poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth
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I often wonder whether we do not rest our hopes too much upon constitutions, upon laws and upon courts. These are false hopes believe me, these are false hopes. Liberty lies in the hearts of men and women when it dies there, no constitution, no law, no court can save it...
quote by Learned Hand
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Build Your Nest
Build yo' nest
Build yo' nest
Build yo' nest
Build yo' nest on tenderness
The nest is yo' home and launcin' pad
Vibes ain't good gotcha' feelin' sad
Build yo' nest on love that tells it all
Gives you the strength to walk mighty tall
With a song in yo' heart most every day
song performed by by Earth Wind & Fire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Question (to Fausta)
Joy comes and goes, hope ebbs and flows
Like the wave;
Change doth unknit the tranquil strength of men.
Love lends life a little grace,
A few sad smiles; and then,
Both are laid in one cold place,
In the grave.
Dreams dawn and fly, friends smile and die
Like spring flowers;
Our vaunted life in one long funeral.
Men dig graves with bitter tears
For their dead hopes; and all,
Mazed with doubts and sick with fears,
Count the hours.
We count the hours! These dreams of ours,
False and hollow,
Do we go hence and find they are not dead?
Joys we dimly apprehend,
Faces that smiled and fled,
Hopes born here, and born to end,
Shall we follow?
poem by Matthew Arnold (1849)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Vanity Of Life
The evils that beset our path
Who can prevent or cure?
We stand upon the brink of death
When most we seem secure.
If we today sweet peace possess,
It soon may be withdrawn;
Some change may plunge us in distress,
Before tomorrow's dawn.
Disease and pain invade our health
And find an easy prey;
And oft, when least expected, wealth
Takes wings and flies away.
A fever or a blow can shake
Our wisdom's boasted rule;
And of the brightest genius make
A madman or a fool.
The gourds, from which we look for fruit,
Produce us only pain;
A worm unseen attacks the root,
And all our hopes are vain.
I pity those who seek no more
Than such a world can give;
Wretched they are, and blind, and poor,
And dying while they live.
Since sin has filled the earth with woe,
And creatures fade and die;
Lord wean our hearts from things below,
And fix our hopes on high.
poem by John Newton
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To The Hummingbird
I cannot heal thy green gold breast,
Where deep those cruel teeth have prest,
Nor bid thee raise thy ruffled crest,
And seek thy mate,
Who sits alone within thy nest,
Nor sees thy fate.
No more with him in summer hours
Thou'lt hum amid the leafy bowers,
Nor hover round the dewy flowers,
To feed thy young;
Nor seek, when evening darkly lowers,
Thy nest high hung.
No more thou'lt know a mother's care
Thy honied spoils at eve to share,
Nor teach thy tender brood to dare
With upward spring,
Their path through fields of sunny air,
On new fledged wing.
For thy return in vain shall wait
Thy tender young, thy fond fond mate,
Till night's last stars beam forth full late
On their sad eyes;
Unknown, alas! thy cruel fate,
Unheard thy cries!
poem by Jones Very
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Eleventh Sunday After Trinity
Is this a time to plant and build,
Add house to house, and field to field,
When round our walls the battle lowers,
When mines are hid beneath our towers,
And watchful foes are stealing round
To search and spoil the holy ground?
Is this a time for moonlight dreams
Of love and home by mazy streams,
For Fancy with her shadowy toys,
Aerial hopes and pensive joys,
While souls are wandering far and wide,
And curses swarm on every side?
No--rather steel thy melting heart
To act the martyr's sternest part,
To watch, with firm unshrinking eye,
Thy darling visions as thy die,
Till all bright hopes, and hues of day,
Have faded into twilight gray.
Yes--let them pass without a sigh,
And if the world seem dull and dry,
If long and sad thy lonely hours,
And winds have rent thy sheltering bowers,
Bethink thee what thou art and where,
A sinner in a life of care.
The fire of God is soon to fall
(Thou know'st it) on this earthly ball;
Full many a soul, the price of blood,
Marked by th' Almighty's hand for good,
To utter death that hour shall sweep -
And will the saints in Heaven dare weep?
Then in His wrath shall GOD uproot
The trees He set, for lack of fruit,
And drown in rude tempestuous blaze
The towers His hand had deigned to raise;
In silence, ere that storm begin,
Count o'er His mercies and thy sin.
Pray only that thine aching heart,
From visions vain content to part,
Strong for Love's sake its woe to hide
May cheerful wait the Cross beside,
Too happy if, that dreadful day,
Thy life be given thee for a prey.
Snatched sudden from th' avenging rod,
Safe in the bosom of thy GOD,
How wilt thou then look back, and smile
On thoughts that bitterest seemed erewhile,
And bless the pangs that made thee see
This was no world of rest for thee!
poem by John Keble
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My Heart Is Like A Withered Nut!
MY heart is like a withered nut,
Rattling within its hollow shell;
You cannot ope my breast, and put
Any thing fresh with it to dwell.
The hopes and dreams that filled it when
Life's spring of glory met my view,
Are gone! and ne'er with joy or pain
That shrunken heart shall swell anew.
My heart is like a withered nut;
Once it was soft to every touch,
But now 'tis stern and closely shut;--
I would not have to plead with such.
Each light-toned voice once cleared my brow,
Each gentle breeze once shook the tree
Where hung the sun-lit fruit, which now
Lies cold, and stiff, and sad, like me!
My heart is like a withered nut--
It once was comely to the view;
But since misfortune's blast hath cut,
It hath a dark and mournful hue.
The freshness of its verdant youth
Nought to that fruit can now restore;
And my poor heart, I feel in truth,
Nor sun, nor smile shall light it more!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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A Hazy Shade Of Winter
==========================================
Simon & Garfunkel - A Hazy Shade Of Winter
==========================================
(2:17)
P. Simon, 1966
Time, time, time
See what's become of me
While I looked around
For my possibilities
I was so hard to please
But look around
Leaves are brown
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter
Hear the Salvation Army band
Down by the riverside
It's bound to be a better ride
Than what you've got planned
Carry your cup in your hand
And look around
Leaves are brown
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter
Hang onto your hopes, my friend
That's an easy thing to say
But if your hopes should pass away
Simply pretend
That you can build them again
Look around
The grass is high
The fields are ripe
It's the springtime of my life
Seasons change with the scenery
Weaving time in a tapestry
Won't you stop and remember me
At any convenient time?
Funny how my memory skips
While looking over manuscripts
Of unpublished rhyme
Drinking my vodka and lime
I look around
Leaves are brown
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter
Look around
Leaves are brown
There's a patch of snow on the ground
song performed by by Simon & Garfunkel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When Hopes Ran High
When hopes ran high the world was young,
We thought that we would never die,
And glorious were the songs we sung
In those grand days when hopes ran high.
When hopes ran high the world was true
We thought that friends could never lie—
There have been bitter truths for you
And me, since days when hopes ran high.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Long Years Have Past Since Last I Stood
LONG years have past since last I stood
Alone amid this mountain scene,
Unlike the future which I dreamed,
How like my future it has been!
A cold grey sky o'erhung with clouds,
With showers in every passing shade,
How like the moral atmosphere
Whose gloom my horoscope has made!
I thought if yet my weary feet
Could rove my native hills again,
A world of feeling would revive,
Sweet feelings wasted, worn in vain.
My early hopes, my early joys,
I dreamed those valleys would restore;
I asked for childhood to return,
For childhood, which returns no more.
Surely the scene itself is changed!
There did not always rest as now
That shadow in the valley's depth,
That gloom upon the mountain-brow.
Wild flowers within the chasms dwelt
Like treasures in stone fairy hold,
And morning o'er the mountains shed
Her kindling world of vapoury gold.
Another season of the year
Is now upon the earth and me;
Another spring will light these hills—
No other spring mine own may be:
I must retune my unstrung harp,
I must awake the sleeping tomb,
I must recall the loved and lost,
Ere spring again for me could bloom.
I've wandered, but it was in vain,
In many a far and foreign clime,
Absence is not forgetfulness,
And distance cannot vanquish time.
One face was ever in my sight,
One voice was ever on my ear,
From all earth's loveliness I turned
To wish, Ah that the dead were here!
Oh! weary wandering to no home,
Oh! weary wandering alone,
I turned to childhood's once glad scenes
And found life's last illusion flown.
Ah! those who left their childhood's scenes
For after-years of toil and pain,
Who but bring back the breaking heart
Should never seek those scenes again.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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To Lady Beaumont
LADY! the songs of Spring were in the grove
While I was shaping beds for winter flowers;
While I was planting green unfading bowers,
And shrubs--to hang upon the warm alcove,
And sheltering wall; and still, as Fancy wove
The dream, to time and nature's blended powers
I gave this paradise for winter hours,
A labyrinth, Lady! which your feet shall rove.
Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines,
Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom
Or of high gladness you shall hither bring;
And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines
Be gracious as the music and the bloom
And all the mighty ravishment of spring.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Sometimes In August
Cool, I mean cool as ever.
Anticipating these confrontations could end and bring abruptly the spark envisaged.
Dreams painted and hopes built, gladly chanting with sacred verves and voicing out in-depthly my voluminous ideas.
Sometimes in August, when plans discriminately fight one another with the aim of being supreme.
Hot, I mean hot to be exact.
If the heart beats to render courage to time, then hopes build up to defy fate.
Sometimes in August, our hopes fade, new consignments are met but proposed interrogationz would ever linger on my brains as always.
Sometimes in August.
poem by Prince Kenny Osei
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In Memoriam A. H. H.: 11. Calm is the morn without a sound
Calm is the morn without a sound,
Calm as to suit a calmer grief,
And only thro' the faded leaf
The chestnut pattering to the ground:
Calm and deep peace on this high wold,
And on these dews that drench the furze.
And all the silvery gossamers
That twinkle into green and gold:
Calm and still light on yon great plain
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,
And crowded farms and lessening towers,
To mingle with the bounding main:
Calm and deep peace in this wide air,
These leaves that redden to the fall;
And in my heart, if calm at all,
If any calm, a calm despair:
Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,
And waves that sway themselves in rest,
And dead calm in that noble breast
Which heaves but with the heaving deep.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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An Angel in the House
How sweet it were, if without feeble fright,
Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight,
An angel came to us, and we could bear
To see him issue from the silent air
At evening in our room, and bend on ours
His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers
News of dear friends, and children who have never
Been dead indeed,--as we shall know forever.
Alas! we think not what we daily see
About our hearths,--angels that are to be,
Or may be if they will, and we prepare
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air;--
A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings
In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.
poem by James Henry Leigh Hunt
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Sheoaks That Sigh When The Wind Is Still
Why are the sheoaks forever sighing?
(Sheoaks that sigh when the wind is still)—
Why are the dead hopes forever dying?
(Dead hopes that died and are with us still.)
As you make it and what you will.
Why are the ridges forever waiting?
Ridges that waited ere one man came,
Still by the towns with their life vibrating
Lonely ridges that wait the same.
Ridges and gullies without a name.
Why is the strong heart forever peering
Into the future that speaks no ill?
Why is the kind heart forever cheering,
Even at times when the fears are still?
As you make it, and what you will.
Why is the distance forever drawing?
(The wide horizon is round us still!)
Why is resentment forever gnawing
Against a world that may mean no ill?
Why are so many forever sawing
On strings that rasp and can never thrill—Soothe or thrill?
As you make it, and what you will.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Villanelle: The Joys of Spring
The Sun wakes the earth, and the birds sing
songs of joy and beauty that strike me with suspense and awe:
Spring fills me with delight about what it will bring.
They rise up in the air, they are the king
of the skies, higher and higher they soar.
O! The joys of Spring.
But when the rain falls, it doesn't matter, for the things
in Spring that are here give me warmth; I don't care that rain will pour:
Spring fills me with delight about what it will bring.
And now I see you, like a new-born lamb; I'm gaping
at your beauty, your whole being, and so much more.
O! The joys of Spring!
Spring, as harbinger of life and hoping,
entices all with possibilities, vivacity, and so much more.
Spring fills me with delight about what it will bring.
So now I offer you my ring,
spend our life like an eternal Spring; I will always keep you in my heart's store:
Spring fills me with delight about what it will bring:
O! The joys of Spring!
poem by Dan Pyzer Knapp
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