The Indian Burying Ground
In spite of all the learn'd have said;
I still my old opinion keep,
The posture, that we give the dead,
Points out the soul's eternal sleep.
Not so the ancients of these lands --
The Indian, when from life releas'd
Again is seated with his friends,
And shares gain the joyous feast.
His imag'd birds, and painted bowl,
And ven'son, for a journey dress'd,
Bespeak the nature of the soul,
Activity, that knows no rest.
His bow, for action ready bent,
And arrows, with a head of stone,
Can only mean that life is spent,
And not the finer essence gone.
Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way.
No fraud upon the dead commit --
Observe the swelling turf, and say
They do not lie, but here they sit.
Here still lofty rock remains,
On which the curious eye may trace,
(Now wasted, half, by wearing rains)
The fancies of a older race.
Here still an aged elm aspires,
Beneath whose far -- projecting shade
(And which the shepherd still admires
The children of the forest play'd!
There oft a restless Indian queen
(Pale Shebah, with her braided hair)
And many a barbarous form is seen
To chide the man that lingers there.
By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews,
In habit for the chase array'd,
The hunter still the deer pursues,
The hunter and the deer, a shade!
And long shall timorous fancy see
The painted chief, and pointed spear,
And reason's self shall bow the knee
To shadows and delusions here.
poem by Philip Freneau
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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3 A.M. Eternal
This is Radio Freedom
KLF! unh huh, unh huh, unh huh, unh huh
KLF is gonna rock you
are you ready (unh huh, unh huh) [ANCIENTS OF MU MU]
here we go [ANCIENTS OF MU MU]
KLF is gonna rock you
are you ready (unh huh, unh huh) [ANCIENTS OF MU MU]
KLF, KLF is gonna rock you
KLF!
are you ready (unh huh, unh huh) [ANCIENTS OF MU MU]
(Eterrrnallll)
Eternal
KLF is gonna rock you, 'cos you hafta
Move to the flow of the pyramid-blaster
Bass ballistics . . . I'm gonna kick this HARD
An' you can catch it
Down with the crew crew
Talkin' 'bout the MU MU
Justified Ancient Liberation Zulu
Got to teach, an' everything you learn'll
Point to the fact that time is Eternal
It's Three A.M., Three A.M.
It's Three A.M. eternal
Eternal
KLF is gonna rock you
are you ready (unh huh, unh huh) [ANCIENTS OF MU MU]
here we go [ANCIENTS OF MU MU]
KLF! unh huh, unh huh
Eternal
Sample city, through Trancentral
Basic face kick, elemental
Swings, brings new technology
With K the L the F an the ology
The force comin' down with mayhem
Lookin at my watch, time 3 A.M.
Got to see that everywhere I turn will
Point to the fact that time is Eternal
It's Three A.M., Three A.M.
It's Three A.M. Eternal
Eternal
Eternal
are you ready [ANCIENTS OF MU MU]
here we go [ANCIENTS OF MU MU]
are you ready [ANCIENTS OF MU MU]
here we go [ANCIENTS OF MU MU]
KLF! unh huh, unh huh, unh huh, unh huh
KLF! unh huh, unh huh
KLF is gonna rock you
are you ready (unh huh, unh huh) [ANCIENTS OF MU MU]
here we go [ANCIENTS OF MU MU]
KLF is gonna rock you
are you ready (unh huh, unh huh) [ANCIENTS OF MU MU] (Eternal)
here we go [ANCIENTS OF MU MU]
are you ready (unh huh, unh huh) [ANCIENTS OF MU MU] (Eternal)
here we go [ANCIENTS OF MU MU]
are you ready [ANCIENTS OF MU MU] (Eternal)
here we go [ANCIENTS OF MU MU]
are you ready [ANCIENTS OF MU MU] (Eternal)
here we go [ANCIENTS OF MU MU]
Got to see that everywhere I turn will
Point to the fact that time is Eternal
KLF!
song performed by by KLF
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Hunter's Mind
Awake, awake!
Awake to the morning bowl from last night's food;
Like the fling of a stone that puts the stars into flight.
What has the hunter in the hand?
Awake to the games of the Sultans,
Where the morning glory do call for the hunter;
Awake, awake!
Awake to the facts of life;
Cos', the hunter's gun is ready for action.
Oh no! ! The hunter's eye has caught the Sultans turret,
Like the noose of light to awake nature's call;
Who can satisfy the Sultans?
Like a little pool, so is the hunter's mind;
The hunter's gun is ready for action.
The only man who makes no mistake is,
The man who never does anything;
Awake, awake!
The Sultans turret is in trouble;
Like the noose of light to awake nature's call.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To the century plant
Plant of a hundred years! destroying Time
Passes thy gentle race with hurrying trend,
Leaves their bright petals colorless and dim,
Strews with their withered leaves the mossy bed,
And sweeps them onward with the countless dead,
Ere the swift passing of the summer hour --
But, beauteous flower, above thy towering head
An age hath passed and left no trace of power:
Plant of a hundred years, thou seem'st Time's favorite flower!
I would that he had passed less lightly o'er thee,
And on thy polished leaves some record made,
Of all the scenes that long since passed before thee,
When round thee waved a forest, in whose shade
The Indian lover wooed his dusky maid, --
When the red warriors lit their council fires,
As peal'd the war-cry over hill and glade,
And then in triumph raised the funeral pyre
Of the ill-fated captive, bride, or son, or sire.
Alas, fair flower! they've vanished from the earth,
That wronged and injured race, and none are here
Of all the friends that knew thee at thy birth, --
No longer near thee rests the wearied deer,
Thy sister flowers have faded with each year;
Still thou remainest, though they all have flown,
Like some strange being from another sphere,
Or like some aged man, sad and alone, --
May I not linger here, when those I love are gone!
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Deer Hunt
Hunter pursuits a white-tailed deer and suddenly it disappears in the thick jungle.
The way back is forgotten and he was left behind.
There live a Widow and a Virgin who were pioneers of the secret forest provide him hospitality.
The hunter doesn't want to white wash and he catches these two birds (huntresses) in one stone.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Corn Grinders
O little mouse, why dost thou cry
While merry stars laugh in the sky?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah, who will ease my bitter pain?
He went to seek a millet-grain
In the rich farmer's granary shed;
They caught him in a baited snare,
And slew my lover unaware:
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
O little deer, why dost thou moan,
Hid in thy forest-bower alone?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah! who will quiet my lament?
At fall of eventide he went
To drink beside the river-head;
A waiting hunter threw his dart,
And struck my lover through the heart.
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
O little bride, why dost thou weep
With all the happy world asleep?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah, who will stay these hungry tears,
Or still the want of famished years,
And crown with love my marriage-bed?
My soul burns with the quenchless fire
That lit my lover's funeral pyre:
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
poem by Sarojini Naidu
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19th September
I cannot walk properly after the gun shot,
But you were the very hunter who shot my leg.
Your gun shot was aimed at my back like,
A virgin lady without a pot;
For i am now a deer to you.
Your were in the same forest that i was,
Looking for a deer to shoot at and you rather got me;
But i do hope that one day i will walk very well.
I have got my papers in order and i still need your care,
But you came as a hunter to get me down!
And in this wolrd of lovers and haters,
What can i say to this act of yours?
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Deer-Star (A Paiute Legend)
HEAR now a tale of the deer-star,
Tale of the days agone,
When a youth rose up for the hunting
In the bluish light of dawn --
Rose up for the red deer hunting,
And what should a hunter do
Who has never an arrow feathered,
Nor a bow strung taut and true?
The women laughed from the doorways, the maidens mocked at the spring;
For thus to be slack at the hunting is ever a shameful thing.
The old men nodded and muttered, but the youth spoke up with a frown:
'If I have no gear for the hunting, I will run the red deer down.'
He is off by the hills of the morning,
By the dim, untrodden ways;
In the clean, wet, windy marshes
He has startled the deer agraze;
And a buck of the branching antlers
Streams out from the fleeing herd,
And the youth is apt to the running
As the tongue to the spoken word.
They have gone by the broken ridges, by mesa and hill and swale,
Nor once did the red deer falter, nor the feet of the runner fail;
So lightly they trod on the lupines that scarce were the flower-stalks bent,
And over the tops of the dusky sage the wind of their running went.
They have gone by the painted desert,
Where the dawn mists lie uncurled,
And over the purple barrows
On the outer rim of the world.
The people shout from the village,
And the sun gets up to spy
The royal deer and the runner,
Clear shining in the sky.
And ever the hunter watches for the rising of that star
When he comes by the summer mountains where the haunts of the red deer are,
When he comes by the morning meadows where the young of the red deer hide;
He fares him forth to the hunting while the deer and the runner bide.
poem by Mary Austin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Bended Bow
There was heard the sound of a coming foe,
There was sent through Britain a bended Bow,
And a voice was pour'd on the free winds far,
As the land rose up at the sign of war.
'Heard ye not the battle-horn?
-Reaper! leave thy golden corn!
Leave it for the birds of Heaven,
Swords must flash, and spears be riven!
Leave it for the winds to shed-
Arm! ere Britain's turf grow red!'
And the reaper arm'd, like a freeman's son,
And the bended Bow and the voice pass'd on.
'Hunter! leave the mountain-chase!
Take the falchion from its place!
Let the wolf go free to-day,
Leave him for a nobler prey!
Let the deer ungall'd sweep by,-
Arm thee! Britain's foes are nigh!'
And the hunter arm'd ere the chase was done,
And the bended Bow and the voice pass'd on.
'Chieftain! quit the joyous feast!
Stay not till the song hath ceas'd:
Though the mead be foaming bright,
Though the fires give ruddy light,
Leave the hearth and leave the hall-
Arm thee! Britain's foes must fall.'
And the chieftain arm'd, and the horn was blown,
And the bended Bow and the voice pass'd on.
'Prince! thy father's deeds are told,
In the bower and in the hold!
Where the goatherd's lay is sung,
Where the minstrel's harp is strung!
-Foes are on thy native sea-
Give our bards a tale of thee!'
And the prince came arm'd, like a leader's son,
And the bended Bow and the voice pass'd on.
'Mother! stay thou not thy boy!
He must learn the battle's joy.
Sister! bring the sword and spear,
Give thy brother words of cheer!
Maiden! bid thy lover part,
Britain calls the strong in heart!'
And the bended Bow and the voice pass'd on,
And the bards made song for a battle won.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Hunting Horn Of Chalemagne
SOUND not the Horn!--the guarded relic keep:
A faithful sharer of its master's sleep:
His life it gladden'd--to his life belong'd,--
Pause--ere thy lip the royal dead hath wrong'd.
Its weary weight but mocks thy feeble hand;
Its desolate note, the shrine wherein we stand.
Not such the sound it gave in days of yore,
When that rich belt a monarch's bosom wore,--
Not such the sound! Far over hill and dell
It waked the echoes with triumphant swell;
Heard midst the rushing of the torrent's fall,
From castled crag to roofless ruin'd hall,
Down the ravine's precipitous descent,
Thro' the wild forest's rustling boughs it went,
Upon the lake's blue bosom linger'd fond,
And faintly answer'd from the hills beyond:
Pause!--the free winds that joyous blast have borne:--
Dead is the hunter!--silent be the horn!
Sound not the horn! Bethink thee of the day
When to the chase an Emperor led the way;
In all the pride of manhood's noblest prime,
Untamed by sorrow, and untired by time,
Life's pulses throbbing in his eager breast,
Glad, active, vigorous,--who is now at rest:--
How he gazed round him with his eagle eye,
Leapt the dark rocks that frown against the sky,
Grasp'd the long spear, and curb'd the panting steed
(Whose fine nerves quiver with his headlong speed),
At the wild cry of danger smiled in scorn,
And firmly sounded that re-echoing horn!
Ah! let no touch the ivory tube profane
Which drank the breath of living Charlemagne;
Let not like blast by meaner lips be blown,
But by the hunter's side the horn lay down!
Or, following to his palace, dream we now
Not of the hunter's strength, or forest bough,
But woman's love! HER offering this, perchance,--
This, granted to each stranger's casual glance,
This, gazed upon with coldly curious eyes,
Was giv'n with blushes, and received with sighs!
We see her not;--no mournful angel stands
To guard her love-gift from our careless hands;
But fancy brings a vision to our view--
A woman's form, the trusted and the true:
The strong to suffer, tho' so weak to dare
Patient to watch thro' many a day of care,
Devoted, anxious, generous, void of guile,
And with her whole heart's welcome in her smile;
Even such I see! Her maidens, too, are there,
And wake, with chorus sweet, some native air;
But tho' her proud heart holds her country dear,
And tho' she loves those happy songs to hear,
She bids the tale be hush'd, the harp be still,
For one faint blast that dies along the hill.
Up, up, she springs; her young head backward thrown;
'He comes! my hunter comes!--Mine own--mine own!'
She loves, and she is loved--her gift is worn--
'Tis fancy, all!--And yet--lay down the horn!
Love--life--what are ye?--since to love and live
No surer record to our times can give!
Low lies the hero now, whose spoken name
Could fire with glory, or with love inflame;
Low lies the arm of might, the form of pride,
And dim tradition dreameth by his side.
Desolate stand those painted palace-halls,
And gradual ruin mines the massy walls,
Where frank hearts greeted many a welcome guest,
And loudly rang the beaker and the jest;--
While here, within this chapel's narrow bound,
Whose frozen silence startles to the sound
Of stranger voices ringing thro' the air,
Of faintly echoes many a humble prayer;
Here, where the window, narrow arch'd, and high,
With jealous bars shuts out the free blue sky,--
Where glimmers down, with various-painted ray,
A prison'd portion of God's glorious day,--
Where never comes the breezy breath of morn,
Here, mighty hunter, feebly wakes thy horn!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Indian Girl's Lament
An Indian girl was sitting where
Her lover, slain in battle, slept;
Her maiden veil, her own black hair,
Came down o'er eyes that wept;
And wildly, in her woodland tongue,
This sad and simple lay she sung:
'I've pulled away the shrubs that grew
Too close above thy sleeping head,
And broke the forest boughs that threw
Their shadows o'er thy bed,
That, shining from the sweet south-west,
The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest.
'It was a weary, weary road
That led thee to the pleasant coast,
Where thou, in his serene abode,
Hast met thy father's ghost:
Where everlasting autumn lies
On yellow woods and sunny skies.
'Twas I the broidered mocsen made,
That shod thee for that distant land;
'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid
Beside thy still cold hand;
Thy bow in many a battle bent,
Thy arrows never vainly sent.
'With wampum belts I crossed thy breast,
And wrapped thee in the bison's hide,
And laid the food that pleased thee best,
In plenty, by thy side,
And decked thee bravely, as became
A warrior of illustrious name.
'Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passed
The long dark journey of the grave,
And in the land of light, at last,
Hast joined the good and brave;
Amid the flushed and balmy air,
The bravest and the loveliest there.
'Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid
Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray,--
To her who sits where thou wert laid,
And weeps the hours away,
Yet almost can her grief forget,
To think that thou dost love her yet.
'And thou, by one of those still lakes
That in a shining cluster lie,
On which the south wind scarcely breaks
The image of the sky,
A bower for thee and me hast made
Beneath the many-coloured shade.
'And thou dost wait and watch to meet
My spirit sent to join the blessed,
And, wondering what detains my feet
From the bright land of rest,
Dost seem, in every sound, to hear
The rustling of my footsteps near.'
poem by William Cullen Bryant
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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the ballad of Running Bare
The ballad of Running Bare
By the shores of Ichy Coomi,
By the mighty deep sea water,
In a wigwam warm and roomy,
With the big chief`s lovely daughter,
Lived the Indian champion streaker,
The best in Delaware
And they changed his name from Running Deer,
And they called him Running Bare.
So fleet of foot was Running Bare,
That arrows outward he had shot `em
And run forward with such swiftness
That the arrow had pierced his bottom.
Indian braves in village talkum,
“Running Bare him plenty dumb,
Indian must be heapum stupid,
Shoot own arrows up own bum”.
Big chief`s darghter very lovely,
Not too fat and not too skinny,
Wore dress six inches below navel,
So they called her Ha Ha Minne..
But Running Bare him not good husband,
Played Ha Ha Minne fast and loose,
Ran like hell village to village,
Fathering many papoose
Then pale face came one day to village,
Yellow hair skin white as chalk.
When Indian saw his heap big chopper,
Indian call him Tommy Hawk.
When he first saw HaHa Minne
By the light of village fire,
Saw her not too fat and not too skinny,
Filled his heart with mad desire.
Beneath hooded lids he watches her
As she went into her tepee,
When the village was quiet and sleeping.
Tommy Hawk went creepy, creepy.
But before the dawn Running Bare came running,
From his running here and there
Found them in the sack together
Now he`s caught her sleeping bare,
The pale face leaped up from the pallet,
Like a wounded stag at bay
Tried to relieve the situation
By pretending he was gay.
But Running Bare cried, “Ah ya tatchi”.
Which translated means Think I`m daft.
Then he saw his mighty chopper
And the notches carved upon the shaft.
The two men faced each other
What filled HaHa Minne with alarm
Was thre way they smiled at one another
And walked off arm in arm.
poem by Archie Langford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Thing That Should Not Be
Messenger of fear in sight
Dark deception kills the light
Hybrid children watch the sea
Pray for father, roaming free
Fearless wretch
Insanity
He watches
Lurking beneath the sea
Great old one
Forbidden site
He searches
Hunter of the shadows is rising
Immortal
In madness you dwell
Crawling chaos, underground
Cult has summoned, twisted sound
Out from ruins once possessed
Fallen city, living death
Fearless wretch
Insanity
He watches
Lurking beneath the sea
Timeless sleep
Has been upset
He awakens
Hunter of the shadows is rising
Immortal
In madness you dwell
Not dead which eternal lie
Stranger eons death may die
Drain you of your sanity
Face the thing that should not be
Fearless wretch
Insanity
He watches
Lurking beneath the sea
Great old one
Forbidden site
He searches
Hunter of the shadows is rising
Immortal
In madness you dwell
song performed by by Primus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Stranger In Louisiana
We saw thee, O stranger, and wept!
We look'd for the youth of the sunny glance,
Whose step was the fleetest in chase or dance!
The light of his eye was a joy to see,
The path of his arrows a storm to flee!
But there came a voice from a distant shore:
He was call'd-he is found 'midst his tribe no more!
He is not in his place when the night-fires burn,
But we look for him still-he will yet return!
-His brother sat with a drooping brow
In the gloom of the shadowing cypress bough,
We rous'd him-we bade him no longer pine,
For we heard a step-but the step was thine.
We saw thee, O stranger, and wept!
We look'd for the maid of the mournful song,
Mournful, though sweet-she hath left us long!
We told her the youth of her love was gone,
And she went forth to seek him-she pass'd alone;
We hear not her voice when the woods are still,
From the bower where it sang, like a silvery rill.
The joy of her sire with her smile is fled,
The winter is white on his lonely head,
He hath none by his side when the wilds we track,
He hath none when we rest-yet she comes not back!
We look'd for her eye on the feast to shine,
For her breezy step-but the step was thine!
We saw thee, O stranger, and wept!
We look'd for the chief who hath left the spear
And the bow of his battles forgotten here!
We look'd for the hunter, whose bride's lament
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent:
We look'd for the first-born, whose mother's cry
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky!
-Where are they?-thou 'rt seeking some distant coast-
Oh, ask of them, stranger!-send back the lost!
Tell them we mourn by the dark blue streams,
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams!
Tell, how we sat in the gloom to pine,
And to watch for a step-but the step was thine!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Hunter's Vision
Upon a rock that, high and sheer,
Rose from the mountain's breast,
A weary hunter of the deer
Had sat him down to rest,
And bared to the soft summer air
His hot red brow and sweaty hair.
All dim in haze the mountains lay,
With dimmer vales between;
And rivers glimmered on their way,
By forests faintly seen;
While ever rose a murmuring sound,
From brooks below and bees around.
He listened, till he seemed to hear
A strain, so soft and low,
That whether in the mind or ear
The listener scarce might know.
With such a tone, so sweet and mild,
The watching mother lulls her child.
'Thou weary huntsman,' thus it said,
'Thou faint with toil and heat,
The pleasant land of rest is spread
Before thy very feet,
And those whom thou wouldst gladly see
Are waiting there to welcome thee.'
He looked, and 'twixt the earth and sky
Amid the noontide haze,
A shadowy region met his eye,
And grew beneath his gaze,
As if the vapours of the air
Had gathered into shapes so fair.
Groves freshened as he looked, and flowers
Showed bright on rocky bank,
And fountains welled beneath the bowers,
Where deer and pheasant drank.
He saw the glittering streams, he heard
The rustling bough and twittering bird.
And friends--the dead--in boyhood dear,
There lived and walked again,
And there was one who many a year
Within her grave had lain,
A fair young girl, the hamlet's pride--
His heart was breaking when she died:
Bounding, as was her wont, she came
Right towards his resting-place,
And stretched her hand and called his name
With that sweet smiling face.
Forward with fixed and eager eyes,
The hunter leaned in act to rise:
Forward he leaned, and headlong down
Plunged from that craggy wall;
He saw the rocks, steep, stern, and brown,
An instant, in his fall;
A frightful instant--and no more,
The dream and life at once were o'er.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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In some fields of grass under the hills (sestina)
This afternoon the peaks throw a big shade
with the black cliffs shining up on the hills,
while we lay together in the long grass,
I look in your eyes that are amber-green
while under my head there is a small stone
and you smile at me like the prettiest lady.
I had once known another charming lady;
that part of my life is now left in shade,
bad churchmen were casting stone upon stone,
while I had to flee from them to the hills
to pastures were everything is green
to find the Lord in divine fields of grass.
Under your head there is a crown of grass
and your mother is a gracious, kind lady,
around us everything is lovely green
while we are still resting in the cool shade,
we are softly chatting about life’s hills,
about walls of very hard granite stone.
Your eyes are much brighter than emerald stone
while all of your words are softer than grass,
reaching higher and beyond all the hills,
the high mountain which is dangerous lady,
while from our pain nothing gives any shade,
nowhere is a place of rest that is green.
Your summer dress is lovely, is bright green,
suddenly all our ails have turned to stone
I follow you further; see your small shade,
I am seen as one that woos any lady,
we walk past some flowers growing in grass,
climbing up higher into the foothills.
Bright streams are splashing down some of the hills,
with water transparent, sometimes cold and green,
love and lust burns like in a youthful lady
while I at that moment feel cold as stone,
we notice a deer feeding on lone grass
while our garments lie under a tree’s shade.
Far into the hills you want love till dusk’s shade,
where you peep like some green moss from the grass,
are tossing me with a stone like no lady.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wasted upon the ground of life
The streets of life are real
For those of us who learn
What it's really like
To be wasted and alone
In the mire of mud
You watch as life goes by
You wonder who they are
Those that pass by
Your earthly remains
You try to gain control
Of the normality in life
Only to drown
In your burdens of old
The shadows of life
Pound upon your soul
You duck, you fight
What you think is right
Only to learn
It's just an imaginary foe
And then you start to laugh
At the audacity of life
How dare they all ignore you?
Wasted upon the ground of life
poem by Kaila George
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Dream
I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night;
I went to the window to see the sight;
All the Dead that ever I knew
Going one by one and two by two.
On they pass'd, and on they pass'd;
Townsfellows all, from first to last;
Born in the moonlight of the lane,
Quench'd in the heavy shadow again.
Schoolmates, marching as when they play'd
At soldiers once - but now more staid;
Those were the strangest sight to me
Who were drown'd, I knew, in the awful sea.
Straight and handsome folk, bent and weak, too;
Some that I loved, and gasp'd to speak to;
Some but a day in their churchyard bed;
Some that I had not known were dead.
A long, long crowd - where each seem'd lonely,
Yet of them all there was one, one only,
Raised a head or look'd my way;
She linger'd a moment - she might not stay.
How long since I saw that fair pale face!
Ah! Mother dear! might I only place
My head on thy breast, a moment to rest,
While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest!
On, on, a moving bridge they made
Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade,
Young and old, women and men;
Many long-forgot, but remembered then,
And first there came a bitter laughter;
A sound of tears a moment after;
And then a music so lofty and gay,
That eve morning, day by day,
I strive to recall it if I may.
poem by William Allingham
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sleep To Rejuvenate lIfe!
Unconscious state of being is sleep;
Sleep refreshes mind, heart and soul.
While awake our activities are known
And while asleep no activity is known!
Dreams are common in sleep for all;
It fulfils the heart not possible otherwise!
First all starts as dreams and ends in action;
So, dream is consolation and inspiration!
Coming back to senses seems to be a magic!
If it does not take place one is concluded as dead!
In activities and sleep man's life goes on here;
But without good sleep no activity is bright!
Work while you work, play while play and also
Sleep while you sleep to rejuvenate your life!
poem by Ramesh T A
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Hunter of the Uruguay to his Love
Would'st thou be happy, would'st thou be free,
Come to our woody islands with me!
Come, while the summer sun is high,
Beneath the peach tree's shade to lie;
Or thy hunter will shield thee the live-long day
In his hut of reeds from the scorching ray.
There countless birds with wings of light
Shall flit and glitter before thy sight,
And their songs from the stately palm trees nigh
Shall charm thee with ceaseless melody.
The Cayman shall not lurk within
To steal around thy bed;
But the leopard shall yield his spotted skin
That thy couch may be warmly spread.
The river-serpent, with glittering coil,
Shall plunge beneath the tide;
And the Ao shall shun the happy isle
That hails my gentle bride.
Thou shalt list to the hymn of the forest choir
As eve comes gently on,
How the woods resound
With the lengthen'd sound,
Till in distance it is gone.
Thou shalt mark the ounce in his leafy shade,
How he lures his finny prey—
Whose colours, in the gleam display'd,
Illumine the wat'ry way.
The bright dorado shall glitter by
With scales of gold and blue,
As the lucid waters tremblingly
Reflect each varying hue.
Come, my beloved, delay no more;
I linger for thee upon the shore.
Fear not the rocks that darken our course;
Our canoes are swift and strong:
Fear not the eddy's hurrying force;
We shall dart, like light, along.
The willows are waving to hail us home;
When the hunter and his bride shall come:
All the joys of summer stay for thee—
Oh, come to our woody islands with me.
poem by Louisa Stuart Costello
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Hunter And His Dying Steed
“Wo worth the chase. Wo worth the day,
That cost thy life, my gallant grey!”—Scott
The Hunter stooped o’er his dying steed
With sad dejected mien,
And softly stroked its glossy neck,
Lustrous as silken sheen;
With iron will and nerve of steel,
And pale lips tight compressed,
He kept the tears from eyes that long
Were strange to such a guest.
Thou’rt dying now, my faithful one,
Alas! ’tis easy known—
Thy neck would arch beneath my touch,
Thou’dst brighten at my tone;
But turn not thus thy restless eyes
Upon my saddened brow,
Nor look with such imploring gaze—
I cannot help thee now.
No more we’ll bound o’er dew gemmed sward
At break of summer morn,
Or follow on, through forests green,
The hunter’s merry horn;
No more we’ll brave the rapid stream,
Nor battle with the tide,
Nor cross the slipp’ry mountain path,
As we were wont to ride.
Oh! we have travelled many miles,
And dangers have we braved;
And more than once thy matchless speed
Thy master’s life hath saved;
And many nights the forest sward
Has been the couch we’ve pressed,
Where, pillowed on thy glossy neck,
Most sweet has been my rest.
How often, too, I we shared with thee
The hunter’s scanty fare.
To see thee suffer want or pain,
Mute friend I could not bear;
And now, thou best in agony,
As if thy heart would burst,
And I, what can I do for thee,
Save slake thy burning thirst?
That parting sob, that failing glance—
The pains of death are past!
Thy glazing eyes still turned on me
With love unto the last!
Well may my tears o’er thy cold form,
My steed, flow fast and free,
For, oh! I have had many friends,
Yet none so true as thee!
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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