Shyrene
Once upon my nocturne sorrow,
As I delineate the morrow,
Of a dream, flourishing in might,
To fizzle in the morning light,
Such when the waves swept me ocean,
Of glum, beneath skies, cerulean,
As my memory holds serene,
The fairest woodland nymph, Shyrene;
As queer apparition, wandered,
Seems my sanity, it squandered,
When gayly danced on my window,
A pallid dew and a rainbow,
Through the night, and half my bottle,
All my memories they scuttle,
Except one that I held serene,
That of my woodland nymph, Shyrene;
Here's that last dropp of oblivion,
In this outpouring of passion,
Towards sea of nepenthe borne,
Among vile flotsam, it's been thrown,
With enduring squall, still raging,
And the seething swell, rampaging,
Yet, in my memory serene,
Plays my fair woodland nymph, Shyrene.
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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Paradise Lost for M 'lady Tara
This used to be a woodland place
when I was young long years ago
but now there’s very little trace
no trees at all. You’d never know
this used to be a woodland place.
New bungalows in row on row
their window panes all screened by lace.
Replace the trees which were laid low.
This used to be a woodland place
where any upset child could go
if they were troubled, in disgrace.
An ideal spot for lying low.
This used to be a woodland place
but that was many years ago
How sad that passing years erase
the secret havens children know.
30-Mar-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Water Nymph (Fantasy Poem)
Water Nymph come swim with me,
in the deepest valleys of the sea.
Swim through the eddies,
flirt with the sea ladies.
Many treasures here for you and me.
sirens of the sea waving happily.
Water nymph, water nymph,
did you see, they waved at me.
Come water nymph come swim with me.
Enjoy the vastness of the deep blue sea.
There are sea monkeys, sirens, mermaids and more.
Maybe we can take some treasures back to shore.
Oh cmon water nymph, don’t be shy.
Come swim with me, watch the boats sail by.
(July 1,2007)
poem by Melvina Germain
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There is a serene and settled majesty to woodland scenery that enters into the soul and delights and elevates it, and fills it with noble inclinations.
quote by Washington Irving
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet LXXIX. To The Goddess Of Botany
OF Folly weary, shrinking from the view
Of Violence and Fraud, allow'd to take
All peace from humble life; I would forsake
Their haunts for ever, and, sweet Nymph! with you
Find shelter; where my tired, and tear-swollen eyes
Among your silent shades of soothing hue,
Your 'bells and florrets of unnumber'd dyes'
Might rest--And learn the bright varieties
That from your lovely hands are fed with dew;
And every veined leaf, that trembling sighs
In mead or woodland; or in wilds remote,
Or lurk with mosses in the humid caves,
Mantle the cliffs, on dimpling rivers float,
Or stream from coral rocks beneath the ocean's waves.
poem by Charlotte Smith
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My_Box_of_Sharp_Objects
The nymph’s heart has gone to deep slumber
Sorrow has fade coz her heart has been kept in freezer
Coldness she feels hope won’t last forever
Wake her up by the kiss of summer.
Summer came and let summer go
Leaves were fallin…the nymph without hurryin so
There were rains in between and dark clouds were huggin
Still not moved and let the time flies without kissin.
Then the tree dies as the nymph’s restless heart
Sure she found spring on someone’s charmin pond
But summer she keeps missin and her heart still holdin
Break free from the past…gotta end this sufferin.
Nymph has her summer back but still no glimpse of his light
She understand he’s burdened by the effigy of life
Tryin not to demand but she also has needs
My box of sharp objects, the pain she now feeds…
poem by Mayjorey Dellosa Buendia
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Within The April Woodland Grow
Within the April woodland grow
The bluebells of the dawning spring,
A sea of blue like waves that flow
Upon the breeze they softly sing.
As now the boughs begin to leaf
The sun does shine with gentle beam,
To light the flowers there beneath
And glisten on the restful stream.
That through the woodland winds its way
And follows me where'er I tread,
For love has come to me this day
As to this land I now am wed.
My heart is filled with gladdened cheer
To see the sight and hear the sound,
To me the greatest time of year
When they adorn the barren ground.
Each one to me a lover's kiss
Upon my lips that waited long,
For now I feel a sense of bliss
That lifts me like the throstle's song.
Within the April woodland grow
The bluebells of the dawning spring,
A sea of blue like waves that flow
Unto the shore they softly sing.
poem by Andrew Blakemore
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Acrostic -- Eliza Hughes
E v'ry grace in her combine,
L ove and truth and friendship join,
I n one source without reserve,
Z ealous all her friends to serve,
A nd diffuse true harmony.
H appy nymph of chaste repose,
U nsullied as the vernal rose.
G ay -- majestic -- yet serene,
H andsome, with a graceful mien;
E v'ry charm in her appear,
S he is lovely, chaste and fair.
poem by Major Henry Livingston Jr.
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The Story of Phœbus and Daphne, Applied
Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train,
Fair Sacharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain;
Like Phœbus sung the no less amorous boy;
Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy;
With numbers he the flying nymph pursues,
With numbers such as Phœbus' self might use;
Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads,
O'er craggy mountains, and through flow'ry meads;
Invok'd to testify the lover's care,
Or form some image of his cruel fair:
Urg'd with his fury, like a wounded deer,
O'er these he fled; and now approaching near,
Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay,
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay.
Yet what he sung in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain;
All but the nymph that should redress his wrong,
Attend his passion, and approve his song.
Like Phœbus thus, acquiring unsought praise,
He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arm with bays.
poem by Edmund Waller
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Land Of Innocence
Nightfall in my childhood,
Memories of my future send
Their scent in my mind...
My life and my feelings now?
A knife through my heart,
Sins that torn apart
The once-innocent mind...
The moon’s glance falls over the
Garden of my childhood,
There, where beauty is still untainted,
When I was as fresh as the morning dew...
I remember those feelings so well,
I keep them hidden in a safe place,
Locked inside my heart!
I believed then in the snowy-egret nymph,
I thought she came to me at night,
And carried me above the water
Through the Danube Delta,
To see the secret lagoons
Covered up by weeping willows,
To see the black swans as they dance,
As they perform a sacred ritual of nature,
To see the pelicans as they sleep.
Gazing at the black egrets,
As the wind smoothes their soft feathers,
To see those black ballerinas
As they all reveal an unknown passion:
The passion for the night!
And my dreams were beautiful then,
My voice was clear and sweet,
My mind was innocent and true,
Not touched by the perverted hand of life...
And it’s true what the nymph said to me,
Looking in my eyes, singing softly to my ear:
“From cradle to coffin,
You shall dream,
You shall wish and hope!
But remember, innocence can never be lost,
You will always have it inside,
Take your memories, put them aside,
And you shall find it
Right there; innocence stays! ”
How can I break away from what I am now,
Who will take those tears away?
Was I punished for naivety? Or for innocence?
Yet the falling into the sinner
That I am today, was so mild...
The falling always comes
With the sweetest sensations!
I crave for another night of my childhood,
I crave for a journey back
In the land of living dreams,
The land of sweet torment,
Land of Innocence!
Memories keep on swinging back,
And they hit me with all of their great power...
The nymph looked upon me, every single night.
She once took my hand and placed it on my heart:
“Here, you shall look inside,
Here are your memories - pieces of life,
Here are your dreams – pieces of immortality,
Here is your energy and frenzy -
Pieces of your untamed soul,
Here is your innocence, and always will be,
You just have to look after it.”
The ballet on water was revealing itself
To my child eyes, to my mind...
A weeping willow was my shelter,
I saw the couples of swans,
As they gently, tenderly danced a waltz,
Gracefully, slowly...
I woke up the next morning, locking the secret inside.
The awakening from that beautiful dream,
Into the nightmare of today
Came with the biggest of pains:
Realizing what I am,
Realizing it will never be the same...
My heaven I feel as if it is lost,
My dreams, I feel I will never accomplish...
The awakening!
The falling!
The curse!
I crave for another night of my childhood,
I crave for a journey back
In the land of living dreams,
The land of sweet torment,
Land of Innocence!
I was dreaming every night,
I only had sincere smiles...
Now I cannot but fake them,
My nights are filled with bad dreams,
I fear someone has stole it away from me...
Can I still dream?
Should I dare to dream?
Should I dare to touch the innocence inside?
What if it’s not there anymore?
Nymph comeback to me again,
Only one more time...
Take me there,
To see the show that never ends,
Take me there,
To hear you sing to me again,
Take me there,
To be myself one more time...
Comeback snowy-egret nymph,
Un-fill my heart of regrets,
And fill it with dreams and child’s passions,
Un-do this course of adulthood,
Teach me how to find myself,
To find my own dreams!
I do not dare to dream anymore...
Silence all those
Hell-voices from my mind! ! !
The awakening!
The falling!
The course!
Dear white, frail nymph
Bring me only Innocence,
It is all: mystery, passion,
Dream, love...
But most importantly,
Innocence is Poetry!
Snowy-egret nymph,
I shall dream about you tonight...
Dawn in my childhood,
Memories of my past send
Their poetry in my mind...
poem by Elya Thorn
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Doongalla
From recent rains the woodland path was greasy up along the wooded hill
And the freshening winds of mid afternoon blew with a wintery chill
And in Doongalla east of Melbourne the white cockies did call
In that quiet old mountain woodland where the stringybarks stand tall.
When I last was in Doongalla six or seven years ago
Across the wooded hillside the wintery winds did blow
And the currawongs were calling as through the woodland they did fly
And from memory I remember that too was in July.
The laugh like calls of the kookaburra in Doongalla's woodland ring
And around his invisible borders the grey shrike thrush whistle and sing
And the pleasant fluting of the beautiful crimson rosellas sweet music to the ear
In the woodlands east of Melbourne them one can see and hear
The chilly winds of the high country blow across the wintery sky
And the yellow robin is chirping on the sixth day of July
And the majestic stringybark gums touch the low lying clouds 'twould seem
In Doongalla by the Basin where Mother Nature reign supreme.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Begalmoured and bewildered for M lady ernestine
Beneath a waxing gibbous moon.
A dryad dances to a tune
that’s played upon the pipes of Pan
by a young and handsome man.
Just for tonight it seems that she
the living spirit of a tree.
Can be allowed to dance alone
beside the tree with which she’s grown.
A comely maiden clad in green
More beautiful than he had seen.
Cajoles the youth to come and dance.
He foolishly accepts the chance.
Once he has held her in his arms
he must surrender to her charms.
They share a night of ecstasy
but morning brings a mystery.
By the morning light awoken.
The maid has left behind a token
a souvenir for him to keep.
This was no dream induced by sleep.
A single solid silver leaf
With which to bolster his belief.
As time goes by and memories fade
of one night in a woodland glade.
26-Nov-07
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Maui
seldom a word
spoken
the memory lingers
like you are
eternity's daughter
a nymph of light
dancing on
dawn leaf
a flicker
then you disappear
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Garland
The pride of every grove I chose,
The violet sweet and lily fair,
The dappled pink and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Cloe's hair.
At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place
Upon her brow the various wreath;
The flowers less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath.
The flowers she wore along the day,
And every nymph and shepherd said,
That in her hair they look'd more gay
Than glowing in their native bed.
Undress'd at evening, when she found
Their odours lost, their colours past,
She changed her look, and on the ground
Her garland and her eyes she cast.
That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear
As any Muse's tongue could speak,
When from its lid a pearly tear
Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.
Dissembling what I knew too well,
My love, my life, said I, explain
This change of humour; pr'ythee tell,
That falling tear - what does it mean?
She sigh'd, she smiled; and to the flowers
Pointing, the lovely moralist said,
See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder what a change is made.
Ah me! the blooming pride of May
And that of Beauty are but one;
At morn both flourish bright and gay,
Both fade at evening, pale, and gone.
At dawn poor Stella danced and sung,
The amorous youth around her bow'd;
At night her fatal knell was rung;
I saw and kiss'd her in her shroud.
Such as she is who died to-day,
Such I, alas! may be to-morrow;
Go, Damon, bid thy Muse display
The justice of thy Cloe's sorrow.
poem by Matthew Prior
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Gypsy
Gypsy
Steep path leads to the top,
a Gypsy ascends with aberrance,
his memories behind to drop,
spells an aphorism to his airy audience.
Same drops of forehead sweat,
dropp to soil; an apparition waves,
the rocks bemoan his lone sextet,
raindrops; a Gypsy that even sky betrays.
Maybe he was a shadow, a ghost,
perchance a smile on lips and eyes,
of his betrothal nymph in woods,
in an eternal solitude of her to guise.
He gallivants in emptiness, about,
as two goldfinches of afternoon warble,
their song becomes his lone shout,
to wander above dry yews and marble.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Nymph And Zephyr: A Statuary Group. By Westmacott
AND the summer sun shone in the sky,
And the rose's whole life was in its sigh,
When her eyelids were kiss'd by a morning beam,
And the Nymph rose up from her moonlit dream;
For she had watch'd the midnight hour
Till her head had bow'd like a sleeping flower;
But now she had waken'd, and light and dew
Gave her morning freshness and morning hue,--
Up she sprang, and away she fled
O'er the lithe grass stem and the blossom's head,
From the lillies' bells she dash'd not the spray,
For her feet were as light and as white as they.
Sudden upon her arm there shone
A gem with the hues of an Indian stone,
And she knew the insect bird whose wing
Is sacred to PSYCHE and to spring;
But scarce had her touch its captive prest
Ere another prisoner was on her breast,
And the Zephyr sought his prize again,--
'No,' said the Nymph, thy search is vain:
And her golden hair from its braided yoke
Burst like the banner of hope as she spoke,
'And instead, fair boy, thou shalt moralize
Over the pleasure that from thee flies;
Then it is pleasure,--for we possess
But in the search, not in the success.'
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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The singing Lagoon
An Otter and a Guppy they lived in an isolated lagoon.
They are very good friends.
In a moonlit night they hear a beautiful song.
A Nymph sings while combing her tress in the mangrove.
Once in a blue moon a slim and handsome boatman comes there and joins her singing.
Otter whispered to Guppy; 'My friend are they lovers? '
'I don't think so, if they are lovers then why the boatman comes very seldom? 'Guppy replied.
'Yes, how a boatman can loves a Nymph? 'Otter explained.
They saw the boatman goes into the mangrove.
And they heard the Nymph cries. 'How long I have to wait? And you promised that you take me to your shack soon.'
'Definitely I loose my job in due course as they are making a bridge.
I have already planned to go to the sea as fishing is more profitable.
Please do not worry my sweetheart and I fish you one day when my pocket is full.'
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Sonnet 82: Nymph Of The Garden
Nymph of the garden where all beauties be,
Beauties which do in excellency pass
His who till death look'd in a wat'ry glass,
Or hers, whom naked the Trojan boy did see;
Sweet garden nymph, which keeps the cherry tree
Whose fruit doth far th'Hesperian taste surpass;
Most sweet-fair, most fair-sweet, do not alas,
From coming near those cherries banish me:
For though full of desire, empty of wit,
Admitted late by your best-graced Grace,
I caught at one of them a hungry bit,
Pardon that fault. Once more grant me the place
And I do swear e'en by the same delight,
I will but kiss, I never more will bite.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Memory and Oblivion
When all is lost, there is still a memory
From which a new city can be built in a new world.
Those with memory will be wealthy.
Oblivion cures the old wounds, and you must agree,
There is only the past and the future on the path;
When all is lost, there is still a memory.
Memory will save oblivion from a bad reverie;
When the new city is built, it will be an abode,
Bestowed by those with memory to make others wealthy.
Before the temple, in the middle of the city,
Keepers of the fire all abided.
When all is lost, there is still a memory.
Fire will be born from night to be
New light when all knowledge is swallowed
And those with memory will be wealthy.
A new rose will bloom from the dark sea,
A city revived from memory and abroad;
When all is but a memory, there is still memory.
Those with memory will be wealthy.
poem by Dejan Stojanovic
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There's No To-Morrow
Two long had Lov'd, and now the Nymph desir'd,
The Cloak of Wedlock, as the Case requir'd;
Urg'd that, the Day he wrought her to this Sorrow,
He Vow'd, that he wou'd marry her To-Morrow.
Agen he Swears, to shun the present Storm,
That he, To-Morrow, will that Vow perform.
The Morrows in their due Successions came;
Impatient still on Each, the pregnant Dame
Urg'd him to keep his Word, and still he swore the same.
When tir'd at length, and meaning no Redress,
But yet the Lye not caring to confess,
He for his Oath this Salvo chose to borrow,
That he was Free, since there was no To-Morrow;
For when it comes in Place to be employ'd,
'Tis then To-Day; To-Morrow's ne'er enjoy'd.
The Tale's a Jest, the Moral is a Truth;
To-Morrow and To-Morrow, cheat our Youth:
In riper Age, To-Morrow still we cry,
Not thinking, that the present Day we Dye;
Unpractis'd all the Good we had Design'd;
There's No To-Morrow to a Willing Mind.
poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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Weeping
While Celia's Tears make sorrow bright,
Proud Grief sits swelling in her eyes;
The Sun, next those the fairest light,
Thus from the Ocean first did rise:
And thus thro' Mists we see the Sun,
Which else we durst not gaze upon.
These silver drops, like morning dew,
Foretell the fervour of the day:
So from one Cloud soft show'rs we view,
And blasting lightnings burst away.
The Stars that fall from Celia's eye
Declare our Doom in drawing nigh.
The Baby in that sunny Sphere
So like a Phaeton appears,
That Heav'n, the threaten'd World to spare,
Thought fit to drown him in her tears;
Else might th' ambitious Nymph aspire,
To set, like him, Heav'n too on fire.
poem by Alexander Pope
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