Bereavement.
The little feet have left the house,
The little voice is still:
Without, the wan wind-weary boughs;
Within, the will
To go and hear the wee feet tread
Within the garden of the dead.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Related quotes
The Weary Old Man
weary, the old man from his garden
goes inside the house
with unwashed feet all muddy
rests on that bamboo bed,
he finds no meaning
why he must still live for another day
weary, he closes his eyes
forgetting supper
prepared by his granddaughter
who mother left her
under his care
weary the old man is
now asleep
as the moon which used to be full
fades completely
in a very dark sky
on that open window of his room
the cold winds are getting in
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pointy Toes
Pointy toes,
Elegance shows.
A dancer's feet,
Worn and Weary,
A ballerina's feat,
Makes it look easy.
We abuse our feet,
Scrapped till it bites,
We abuse our feet,
Tie knots too tight,
We abuse our feet,
Stand till sore,
We abuse our feet,
Curl like claw.
High heels, tall.
We abuse our feet,
Bound feet small.
Abuse our feet most than rest of body?
Take care, your feet, Everybody.
The Old House in the Glen
Winter has come and the wind and the rain
Wash over the house in the glen.
It cradles itself as if it were cold
For no one still lives within.
The years have passed over it, leaving it aged
And empty, and lost, without heart,
With no one to live there, no one to care
And the leaves are piled up on the hearth.
If you stand in the doorway, you can feel
Soft music that hangs in the air,
Like the soul of the house that ever lives on
Though there’s no longer any to hear.
The door is now gone, the windows un-paned,
The wood on the roof has gone slack.
But it still lingers on, as if waiting for
The people it loved to come back.
The old house listens, and waits, and sings
As the wind blows in through the door
And the beat of the heart of the house still sounds
Like the tread of their feet on the floor.
poem by Kate Wiley
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The New Faces
IF you, that have grown old, were the first dead,
Neither catalpa tree nor scented lime
Should hear my living feet, nor would I tread
Where we wrought that shall break the teeth of Time.
Let the new faces play what tricks they will
In the old rooms; night can outbalance day,
Our shadows rove the garden gravel still,
The living seem more shadowy than they.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Hat And Feet
Hat And Feet
Fountains Of Wayne
I'm just a hat and feet
That's all that's left of me
A spot on the sidewalk
A mark on the street
I'm just a hat and feet
I'm just a hat and feet
You dropped a bomb on me
I didn't even see
Like a falling piano
From out of the window
Now I'm just a hat and feet
I'm just a hat and feet
I'm just a sitting duck
That ran out of luck
I'm the unhappy guy
That didn't look up high
I started running when I saw it coming
It got faster and louder til I took a powder
Now
I'm just a hat and feet
That's what 's become of me
Flat on the sidewalk
Stuck in the street
I'm just a hat and feet
I'm just a hat and feet
song performed by by Fountains Of Wayne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hat & Feet
Im just a hat and feet
Thats all thats left of me
A spot on the sidewalk
A mark on the street
Im just a hat and feet
Im just a hat and feet
You dropped a bomb on me
I didnt even see
Like a falling piano
From out of a window
Now Im just a hat and feet
Im just a hat and feet
Im just a sitting duck
That ran out of luck
Im the unhappy guy
That didnt look up high
I started running when I saw it coming
It got faster and louder til I took a powder
Now
Im just a hat and feet
Thats what become of me
Flat on the sidewalk
Stuck to the street
Im just a hat and feet
Im just a hat and feet
song performed by by Fountains Of Wayne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Garden
My beautiful garden is talking to me
from weeds to my Japanese Cherry tree.
The ivy has climbed over fencing and wall.
It looks so amazing just now, as it's Fall.
Such fusions of colour hearten my day
I'm all of a flutter to see the display.
Bird's nests survive in the eaves of the house
and I can see squirrels scamper about.
I'm so in awe of this time of year
such lovely profusions of leaves all appear,
making a carpet on my garden floor,
a comforting layer for feet to tread on.
So this is my haven, my garden, my home,
where nature imposes its grandeur.
And I am humbled to look out and view
as my eyes are dazzled by splendour.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Harlem Shadows
I hear the halting footsteps of a lass
In Negro Harlem when the night lets fall
Its veil. I see the shapes of girls who pass
To bend and barter at desire's call.
Ah, little dark girls who in slippered feet
Go prowling through the night from street to street!
Through the long night until the silver break
Of day the little gray feet know no rest;
Through the lone night until the last snow-flake
Has dropped from heaven upon the earth's white breast,
The dusky, half-clad girls of tired feet
Are trudging, thinly shod, from street to street.
Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way
Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace,
Has pushed the timid little feet of clay,
The sacred brown feet of my fallen race!
Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet
In Harlem wandering from street to street.
poem by Claude McKay
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And The Rains Descended And The Floods Came
NOW the far waves roll nearer and more near,
The wind's awake, the pitiless wind's awake,
It shrieks the menace that I dare not hear,
Soon at my feet the angry waves will break
In desolating wrath--and here I stand
Helpless my house is built upon the sand.
O you, whose house upon a rock is set,
Laugh, safe and sure, at threatening wave and wind.
You chose the better part and yet--and yet,
There was no other ground that I could find,
And I was weary and I longed to raise
A house to guard my shivering nights and days.
And it was pleasant in the house I made,
While still the floods and winds were held asleep.
I blessed it at the dawn, at night I prayed
As though its dear foundations had been deep
Sunk in the rock. I whispered in surmise,
'What if winds never wake, floods never rise?'
And now the waves are near and very near,
And here I wait and wonder which may be
The wave in which my house will disappear,
My little house that loved and sheltered me,
Where joy still sings, her garland in her hand,
Built on the sand, oh God, built on the sand!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Shalom
water cleanse my feet
as my father weeps
days turn to weeks
with a child left by a creek
answer may he one day seek
in the water my feet i dip
so water cleanse my feet
and in the mids of the beast
let my soul know that am not week
so if a tear runs down my cheek
as gold is splendid like an antique
may the bird song be silenced
so water please cleanse my feet
see me here, see me there
yes i try hear my cries
see me fall, see me rise
as you look in these eyes
the dead tell no lies
so shalom to shalom,
a nod to a nudge
the morning sky see the night sky
so good bye to say hi
poem by Robert Roberts
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A Dead March
PLAY me a march, low-ton’d and slow—a march for a silent tread,
Fit for the wandering feet of one who dreams of the silent dead,
Lonely, between the bones below and the souls that are overhead.
Here for a while they smil’d and sang, alive in the interspace,
Here with the grass beneath the foot, and the stars above the face,
Now are their feet beneath the grass, and whither has flown their grace?
Who shall assure us whence they come, or tell us the way they go?
Verily, life with them was joy, and, now they have left us, woe,
Once they were not, and now they are not, and this is the sum we know.
Orderly range the seasons due, and orderly roll the stars.
How shall we deem the soldier brave who frets of his wounds and scars?
Are we as senseless brutes that we should dash at the well-seen bars?
No, we are here, with feet unfix’d, but ever as if with lead
Drawn from the orbs which shine above to the orb on which we tread,
Down to the dust from which we came and with which we shall mingle dead.
No, we are here to wait, and work, and strain our banish’d eyes,
Weary and sick of soil and toil, and hungry and fain for skies
Far from the reach of wingless men, and not to be scal’d with cries.
No, we are here to bend our necks to the yoke of tyrant Time,
Welcoming all the gifts he gives us—glories of youth and prime,
Patiently watching them all depart as our heads grow white as rime.
Why do we mourn the days that go—for the same sun shines each day,
Ever a spring her primrose hath, and ever a May her may;
Sweet as the rose that died last year is the rose that is born to-day.
Do we not too return, we men, as ever the round earth whirls?
Never a head is dimm’d with gray but another is sunn’d with curls;
She was a girl and he was a boy, but yet there are boys and girls.
Ah, but alas for the smile of smiles that never but one face wore;
Ah, for the voice that has flown away like a bird to an unseen shore;
Ah, for the face—the flower of flowers—that blossoms on earth no more.
poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
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Garden Of Roses
My garden of roses is dead
All the most beautiful flowers have wilted
And now the winter is here
My garden of roses is dead
Like my love and my nurturing was nothing
And now the winter is here
My garden of roses is dead
Nothing but dust in the wind is left
And now the winter is here
My garden of roses is dead
Everything's gone and I feel so empty
And now the winter is here
poem by Triin Kann
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Margaret
I KNOW a garden where white lilies grow,
Under the grey sweet-laden apple boughs;
It is a garden where the roses blow,
And honeysuckle covers half the house.
O happy garden, do you keep the vows
Breathed in your quiet ear beneath the rose,
Or do you tell the tale to each soft wind that blows?
Across your grassy paths she used to stray,
She moved among you like a living flower,
Her beauty drank your beauty every day,
Your beauty decked her beauty every hour.
You gave her rose and lily for a dower,
With all sweet flowers and fruits your bosom bore--
She took them all--and now she comes not any more.
O garden, if you breathe such secret things
To the south wind who loves you, tell him this:
To spread the scented softness of his wings,
And seek that other garden where she is,
And bid him bear no blossom and no kiss;
Only, dear garden, tell the wind to say
How grey the world is grown since Margaret went away!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Get Out Of My House
(hee-haw! hee-haw! hee-haw!)
When you left, the door was
(slamming!)
You paused in the doorway
(slamming!)
As though a thought stole you away.
(slamming!)
I watched the world pull you away.
(lock it!)
So I run into the hall,
(lock it!)
Into the corridor.
(lock it!)
Theres a door in the house
(slamming).
I hear the lift descending.
(slamming!)
I hear it hit the landing,
(slamming!)
See the hackles on the cat
(standing).
With my key i
(lock it).
With my key i
(lock it up).
With my key i
(lock it).
With my key i
(lock it up).
I am the concierge chez-moi, honey.
Wont letcha in for love, nor money.
(let me in!)
My home, my joy.
Im barred and bolted and i
(wont let you in).
(get out of my house!)
No strangers feet
Will enter me.
(get out of my house!)
I wash the panes,
(get out of my house!)
I clean the stains away.
(get out of my house!)
This house is as old as I am.
(slamming.)
This house knows all I have done.
(slamming.)
They come with their weather hanging round them,
(slamming.)
But cant knock my door down!
(slamming.)
With my key i
(lock it).
With my key i
(lock it).
This house is full of m-m-my mess.
(slamming.)
This house is full of m-m-mistakes.
(slamming.)
This house is full of m-m-madness.
(slamming.)
This house is full of, full of, full of fight!
(slam it.)
With my keeper i
(clean up).
With my keeper i
(clean it all up).
With my keeper i
(clean up).
With my keeper i
(clean it all up).
I am the concierge chez-moi, honey.
Wont letcha in for love, nor money.
(its cold out here!)
My home, my joy.
Im barred and bolted and i
(get out of my house!)
(wont let you in).
(get out of my house!)
No strangers feet
(get out of my house!)
Will enter me.
(get out of my house!)
I wash the panes.
(get out of my house!)
I clean the stains.
(get out of my house!)
(get out of my house!)
(get out of my house!)
(get out of my house!)
Wont enter me.
(get out of my house!)
(get out of my house!)
(get out of my house!)
(get out of my house!)
Yeah! wont let you in!
(get out of my house!)
(get out of my house!)
Let me in!
Woman let me in!
Let me bring in the memories!
Woman let me in!
Let me bring in the devil dreams!
I will not let you in!
Dont you bring back the reveries.
I turn into a bird,
Carry further than the word is heard.
Woman let me in!
I turn into the wind.
I blow you a cold kiss,
Stronger than the songs hit.
I will not let you in.
I face towards the wind.
I change into the mule.
I change into the mule.
Hee-haw! hee-haw! hee-haw-hee-haw-hee-haw-hee-haw...
Hee-haw! hee-haw! hee-haw!
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Dirge
LET Summer go
To other gardens; here we have no need of her.
She smiles and beckons, but we take no heed of her,
Who love not Summer, but bare boughs and snow,
Set the snow free
To choke the insolent triumph of the year,
With birds that sing as though he still were here,
And flowers that blow as if he still could see.
Let the rose die--
What ailed the rose to blow? she is not dear to us,
Nor all the summer pageant that draws near to us;
Let it be over soon, let it go by!
Let winter come,
With the wild mourning of the wind-tossed boughs
To drown the stillness of the empty house
To which no more the little feet come home.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Harlot's House
We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot's house.
Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The "Treues Liebes Herz" of Strauss.
Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.
We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.
Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille.
They took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.
Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.
Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smaoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.
Then, turning to my love, I said,
"The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust."
But she--she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.
Then suddenly the tune went false,
The shadows wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.
And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.
poem by Oscar Wilde
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The Garden
Excerpt from "Maud"
She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead,
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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To Fall Ill as One Should, Deliriously
To fall ill as one should, deliriously
Hot, meet everyone again,
To stroll broad avenues in the seashore garden
Full of the wind and the sun.
Even the dead, today, have agreed to come,
And the exiles, into my house.
Lead the child to me by the hand.
Long I have missed him.
I shall eat blue grapes with those who are dead,
Drink the iced
Wine, and watch the gray waterfall pour
On to the damp flint bed.
------
Behind the lake the moon's not stirred
And seems to be a window through
Into a silent, well-lit house,
Where something unpleasant has occured.
Has the master been brought home dead,
The mistress run off with a lover,
Or has a little girl gone missing,
And her shoes found by the creek-bed...
We can't see. But feel some awful thing,
And we don't want to talk.
Doleful, the cry of eagle-owls, and hot
In the garden the wind is blustering.
poem by Anna Akhmatova
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New Year's Eve
WE stand above the abyss; beneath our feet
Around and onward infinite darkness rolls.
The sky above is black; the watch-bell tolls
The dying year. While slow in silent feet
Pale ghosts come towards us from the ice-locked street
5
Of thought's great city; faces young and old,
Eyes sunken, features set and deathly cold
And noiseless bear the dead year's winding-sheet.
But lo! where now we stand is worn with tread
Of millions; in the darkness feel, the ground
10
Is dust of powdered bones; sure, on this peak
The years have died, and millions of the dead
Have waited vainly through the gloom profound,
For dawn of day or trumpet-voice to speak.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Wandering Singers
WHERE the voice of the wind calls our wandering feet,
Through echoing forest and echoing street,
With lutes in our hands ever-singing we roam,
All men are our kindred, the world is our home.
Our lays are of cities whose lustre is shed,
The laughter and beauty of women long dead;
The sword of old battles, the crown of old kings,
And happy and simple and sorrowful things.
What hope shall we gather, what dreams shall we sow?
Where the wind calls our wandering footsteps we go.
No love bids us tarry, no joy bids us wait:
The voice of the wind is the voice of our fate.
poem by Sarojini Naidu
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