Song #7.
You, too, shall know that I have prayed
Beneath the mystic tree
Whose branches at the first were made
Out of God's memory.
Beneath those boughs my soul has knelt,
And each leaf bending down
Stirred with my heart, as it had felt
A rapture like its own.
I dared not touch the holy thing,
But made my prayer a breath
Intense as is the passioning
Of lover gone to death —
Who sees the dark flood he must cross
Without his love afar,
And bears with him that bitter loss
'Where the Eternal are.'
poem by Robert Crawford
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The Hamadryad.
Last night I was like one who prayed
Beneath a mystic tree
Whose windless leaves a murmur made,
As if it there might be
A spirit in the sap that laid
Its spell on them and me.
A creature who, invisible,
In sorrow and in mirth,
Through summer's heat or when the chill
Is on the dreaming Earth,
Sings as in sleep divinely still
The secret of its birth.
(And as it sings, possessed, apart
From all things far and near,
The music of its own strange heart
Is all it seems to hear,
As if its ardour made an art
Of its own atmosphere.
Still none who come there hear the song
Until their souls are bowed
Beneath the mystic boughs, among
Whose living leaves a crowd
Of spirit voices, weak and strong,
Sing all that God allowed).
Oh! wondrous was that faery strain,
Too holy to be heard
But by the soul with no profane
Imagination stirr'd —
Like a seer when his heart and brain
Are in the coming word,
And he bows low before the breath
Of that which, as a flame,
All that he is illumineth
And calls him as by name,
When one to him are Life and Death,
One honour and one shame.
Ah! so possessed I heard them sing,
The many voices who
Were the sense of a secret thing
That with the tree-life grew,
As it did from the same seed spring
And a dream-breath from it drew —
The mystic life which God had shut
Within the dark seed's core,
Diverse from all that He had put
In others evermore —
No hint of death behind it, but
Of life that is before!
The tree-life in more lives than this —
Of that it sings for aye —
And as I listened the world's hiss
In silence died away,
And the perfect life for all that is
Like a dream on me lay.
poem by Robert Crawford
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I Sit Beneath This Tree
I sit beneath this tree,
Bared beneath the moon,
I'm touched by it's coolness,
I'm loved by it's light,
I sit beneath the tree,
The world can see my scars,
The hollow where my heart layed,
And where my soul escaped,
Then in my hand the dagger,
In your hands my heart,
As it quickly slows,
The necklace round my throat,
Slowly drips down my chest,
I sit beneath this tree,
As you hold onto my hand,
My soul it tries to fly,
With wongs broken from guilt,
I sit upon the earth,
As you hold my hands and plea,
Plea for my forgiveness,
Before the darkness takes control,
Plea for my love,
Before I journey to my grave,
I sit beneath this tree,
As you pain my death,
With your guilt and no forgiveness,
I sit beneath this tree,
As my soul it walks away,
Towards loved gates of Hell.
poem by Holly Heron
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The April Boughs
It was not then her heart broke—
That moment when she knew
That all her faith held holiest
Was utterly untrue.
It was not then her heart broke—
That night of prayer and tears
When first she dared the thought of life
Through all the empty years.
But when beneath the April boughs
She felt the blossoms stir,
The careless mirth of yesterday
Came near and smiled at her.
Old singing lingered in the wind,
Old joy came close again,
Oh, underneath the April boughs,
I think her heart broke then.
poem by Theodosia Garrison
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The Soul's Prayer
In childhood's pride I said to Thee:
'O Thou, who mad'st me of Thy breath,
Speak, Master, and reveal to me
Thine inmost laws of life and death.
'Give me to drink each joy and pain
Which Thine eternal hand can mete,
For my insatiate soul can drain
Earth's utmost bitter, utmost sweet.
'Spare me no bliss, no pang of strife,
Withhold no gift or grief I crave,
The intricate lore of love and life
And mystic knowledge of the grave.'
Lord, Thou didst answer stern and low:
'Child, I will hearken to thy prayer,
And thy unconquered soul shall know
All passionate rapture and despair.
'Thou shalt drink deep of joy and fame,
And love shall burn thee like a fire,
And pain shall cleanse thee like a flame,
To purge the dross from thy desire.
'So shall thy chastened spirit yearn
To seek from its blind prayer release,
And spent and pardoned, sue to learn
The simple secret of My peace.
I, bending from my sevenfold height,
Will teach thee of My quickening grace,
Life is a prism of My light,
And Death the shadow of My face.'
poem by Sarojini Naidu
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Lover reunited beneath the sea bay of seashore
Lover reunited beneath the sea bay of seashore
Failing of purposed of love shall there be
Shall be a victims when lovers has lost be apart, a mourning of love, Love shall never dies
If so the death come feelings shall not dies too, Touché when the lips kiss in-depth of heart of silent
Kisses a wordless a pound the voiceless lover sit of falling asleep under the stars of the night blue sea of ocean beneath the foot of two lover reunited stand
A slash of tears as it mourning of crying soul of his she cries he heard and felt it too beneath his soul they both knew they very much in love. Hearing the waves which calms the soul
Tours de force performance amore acted of love which standing still, A touchingly beneath two lovers like the sea of ocean which apart a kisses eager beneath the sandpit of the bay sea of shore of night blue sea waves
BY: PUTRI MISNIA SHARY BAHRI
Done in late 21st of September breezes 9: 30am fallen in late morning of the day expressing love like shapkspear in love a tale in a modern way u shall try to understanding in words of refinancing which I try Put it in
poem by Putri Misnia Shary Bahri
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Fragment
Moon of leaves,
Moon of the falling leaves,
To you I bring the slippers
of the sun.
That you may dance upon the
floor of sun,
My lady carries sun within her eyes.
Moon of the Unrevealed,
Moon of the gold-encrusted shield,
To you I bring the fragment
of my prayer.
Moon of the crinkled hair,
Tell me, will my lady yield
Eyes and mouth and breasts unsealed?
Will my lady yield?
Moon of the yellow streaked with red,
Moon that the sun would lead to bed,
Moon with the death's head
More than dead,
Why do you frighten the Goddess of Love,
Whose frail white fingers are moving above
The lover's white body lost in his love?
Moon, you are more than dead.
Moon of the ermine loist in the snow,
Moon of the frozen furbelow,
Moon of the nothingness here below,
Moon, you must go.
It is the Sun that tells you so-
Moon, you must go.
And I was dark beneath the moon,
And you were dark beneath the moon,
And we were dark beneath the moon.
Now I am gold beneath the sun,
Now you are gold beneath the sun,
Now we are gold beneath the Sun.
poem by Harry Crosby
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Hearts First Word. II
And all her soft dark hair
Breathed for him like a prayer,
And her white lost face
Was prisoned to sonie far place.
Love was not denied-
Love's ends would hide,
And Hower and fruit and tree
Were under its sea.
Yea, its abundance knelt
Where the nerves felt
The springs of feeling flow
And made pain grow !
There seemed no root or sky,
But a pent infinity
Where apparitions dim
Sculptured each whim
In dame and wandering mist
Of kisses to be kist.
LADY, YOU ARE MY GOD
Lady, you are my God-
Lady, you are my Heaven.
If I am your God
Labour for your Heaven.
Lady, you are my God,
And shall not love win Heaven ?
If love made me God
Deeds must win my Heaven.
If my love made you God,
What more can 1 for Heaven ?
poem by Isaac Rosenberg
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Maple Syrup
The seepage of syrup, from boughs of Maple trees
Sweet treacle sapped, from beneath the arctic snow cover
Reservoirs of a timeless sweetness
Perpetuating to taste buds of cynical humans
Yet, beneath the cynicism and gloom
Of lips rendered bitter by the atrocities of human deed
Beneath this snow-cover of misdeed draping the bed of civilization
There is a soulful man searching for redemption
Atonement for the wayward soul
For the prodigious has metamorphosed to the prodigal
To embrace the mortality of falling, man's eternal waltz with sin
Yet, a copious wealth of sweetness exist
Deep in the erect boughs of man, the heart oozing with syrup
To be tapped like maple exude, to be tasted for deliverance
The soul, a time keeper for absolution
To embrace the emancipation of charitable deed
To soar to the heavens with the wings of your conscience
To levitate in the lightness of an atoned heart
To reap the sweetness of human endeavor
poem by Dilantha Gunawardana
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Sonnet: God’s Love is Prime
God’s love made earth and gave man a life-span;
God’s love made Eve, Adam and all beasts on earth;
God’s love made plants and everything for man;
God’s love made creatures, giving them their breath.
God’s love made Him to give Ten Commandments;
God’s love made Sun, Moon, Stars- the Universe;
God love allowed devils’ impediments;
God’s love let man to make conditions worse.
God’s love made Jesus die upon the Cross;
God’s love made Him redeem the souls of men;
God’s love made His spirit remove chaos;
God’s love made Eternal life in Heaven.
God’s love made man to love this neighbor well;
God’s love made Him to cast bad souls to Hell.
6-11-2001
poem by John Celes
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Hymn 4
Salvation in the cross.
Here at thy cross, my dying God,
I lay my soul beneath thy love,
Beneath the droppings of thy blood,
Jesus, nor shall it e'er remove.
Not all that tyrants think or say,
With rage and lightning in their eyes,
Nor hell shall fright my heart away,
Should hell with all its legions rise.
Should worlds conspire to drive me thence,
Moveless and firm this heart should lie;
Resolved, (for that's my last defence,)
If I must perish, there to die.
But speak, my Lord, and calm my fear;
Am I not safe beneath thy shade?
Thy vengeance will not strike me here,
Nor Satan dares my soul invade.
Yes, I'm secure beneath thy blood,
And all my foes shall lose their aim:
Hosannah to my dying God,
And my best honors to his name.
poem by Isaac Watts
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The Sour Lemon Tree
A sour lemon tree flower attracts the bee
While its fruit is bitter not so its flower
White is its flower sweet and very pretty
Only the fruit is bitter and that's just a pity
As the beauty of its flower resist not a bee
It's the simple truth
Or see the sour lemon tree
With fruit that is bitter bears a lemon tree
But useful is its fruit good for everyday use
Once said a bee... your flower is very sweet
It carries fragrance scented out in the street
Yet bears you fruit bitter no one wants to eat
It's partly the truth
Or see the sour lemon tree
A citrus tree with fruit no other tree bears
Then out of the tree came a nice neat voice
'Twas like a voice of one who's very wise
This is what it said trees are not so free
One made a decree for every bearing tree
It's partly the truth
Or see the sour lemon tree
The Creator decides the fruit a tree bears
Whether it be bitter or whether it be sweet
The Creator decrees for every bearing tree
To bring forth fruit ordained for it to bear
Then sweet or bitter bears a tree its fruit
It's the simple truth
Or see the sour lemon tree.
poem by Clarence Prince
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Mangroves
These black bush-waters, heavy with crusted boughs
Like plumes above dead captains, wake the mind....
Uncounted kissing, unremembered vows,
Nights long forgotten, moons too dark to find,
Or stars too cold...all quick things that have fled
Whilst these old bubbles uprise in older stone,
Return like pale dead faces of children dead,
Staring unfelt through doors for ever unknown.
O silent ones that drink these timeless pools,
Eternal brothers, bending so deeply over,
Your branches tremble above my tears again...
And even my songs are stolen from some old lover
Who cried beneath your leaves like other fools,
While still they whisper "in vain...in vain...in vain..."
poem by Kenneth Slessor
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Arbor Amoris
I have a tree, a graft of Love,
That in my heart has taken root;
Sad are the buds and blooms thereof,
And bitter sorrow is its fruit;
Yet, since it was a tender shoot,
So greatly hath its shadow spread,
That underneath all joy is dead,
And all my pleasant days are flown,
Nor can I slay it, nor instead
Plant any tree, save this alone.
Ah, yet, for long and long enough
My tears were rain about its root,
And though the fruit be harsh thereof,
I scarcely looked for better fruit
Than this, that carefully I put
In garner, for the bitter bread
Whereon my weary life is fed:
Ah, better were the soil unsown
That bears such growths; but Love instead
Will plant no tree, but this alone.
Ah, would that this new spring, whereof
The leaves and flowers flush into shoot,
I might have succour and aid of Love,
To prune these branches at the root,
That long have borne such bitter fruit,
And graft a new bough, comforted
With happy blossoms white and red;
So pleasure should for pain atone,
Nor Love slay this tree, nor instead
Plant any tree, but this alone.
L'ENVOY.
Princess, by whom my hope is fed,
My heart thee prays in lowlihead
To prune the ill boughs overgrown,
Nor slay Love's tree, nor plant instead
Another tree, save this alone.
poem by François Villon
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Somewhere Only We Know
I walked across an empty land
I knew the pathway like the back of my hand
I felt the earth beneath my feet
Sat by the river and it made me complete
Oh simple thing where have you gone?
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on
So tell me when you're gonna let me in
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin
I came across a fallen tree
I felt the branches of it looking at me
Is this the place we used to love?
Is this the place that I've been dreaming of?
Oh simple thing where have you gone?
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on
So tell me when you're gonna let me in
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin
So if you have a minute why don't we go
Talk about it somewhere only we know?
This could be the end of everything
So why don't we go
Somewhere only we know?
Oh simple thing where have you gone?
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on
So tell me when you're gonna let me in
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin
So if you have a minute why don't we go
Talk about it somewhere only we know?
This could be the end of everything
So why don't we go
So why don't we go
Ooo
This could be the end of everything
So why don't we go
Somewhere only we know?
song performed by by Keane
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cross Examined
Of all the trees God ever made, one tree was set apart,
For on that tragic tree was laid the Saviour's beating heart...
The tree would lift the Lord on high upon that fateful day,
When Jesus Christ was meant to die, to take Man's sins away...
And there He was before the crowd, who mocked Him to His face,
As God prepared for Him a shroud when taken from that place...
Golgotha was its awful name, the hill the skull was seen,
That was its only claim to fame... except the Nazarene...
Upon the Cross a sign was nailed which vainly called Him king,
Yet to that crowd, the Lord had failed to change a single thing.
The Romans ruled, so no change there, the Jews were merely slaves
And Jesus Christ was lost in prayer, before His death He braves.
One thief believed, the rest did not, why trust in Paradise?
Christ said He was the way to God, the holy sacrifice.
His hour came, He breathed His last, they took His body down.
The crowd departed still aghast, while I picked up His crown...
It fell to me, and how I wept... His Blood still on each briar.
That night I prayed, I never slept, for hatred turned to fire.
They beat Him up, they scourged His back, they nailed Him high above
And even then, when all looked black, He prayed for them with love.
I mourned for days, then heard it said, the Saviour was alive!
Yet still I prayed beside my bed, for how could He survive?
The rumours went from street to street as if from friend to friend.
Such that each person I would meet hoped this was not the end...
I'll wait and see... I'll follow John and James and Peter, too.
If true, I'll tell you later on... Till then what can I do?
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Fairy Lover
SHE lay beneath an apple tree,
A marble maiden, free from care;
And round her was a canopy
Of moonlit air.
He made his bed among the leaf,
And on a petal softly blown,
He touched a vein upon her brow
With grief unknown.
Then lightly, where the lashes fall,
Entered the chamber of her soul;
And, finding there a silver bell,
He made it toll.
poem by Herbert Asquith
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Eternal Truths
In God’s Word you will hear, Eternal Truths, all men should fear,
A fear that comes as you heed, the Truths of God that you read,
Eternal Truths for all us to see, revealed by God to you and me,
A Divinely inspired Revelation, by God to lead men to salvation.
Revealing His Truth, for us to tell, others about Heaven and Hell,
Through the Holy Spirit of Christ, He shows eternal truths of life,
And He, who gave all men breath, speaks to all of eternal death,
God sets right before everyone, death or Eternal Life in His Son.
The fear God puts in me and you, is reverence to see us through,
To Guide us on this temporal earth, to that place of eternal worth,
As God moves upon our heart, with a Love, which will not depart,
And a fear that makes men wise, as His Spirit opens up our eyes.
They just say we have no proof, about God’s Word we call Truth,
And so God’s Truth they deny, embracing instead, the Devil’s lie;
Although you will die my friend, the eternal soul will have no end,
Your body in the ground may rot, but, your eternal soul shall not.
Some may read and simply say, that all men will just die anyway,
With no care at all, when or why, or where they go when they die,
But, every soul at its last breath, will face God and eternal death,
Unless a soul knows Jesus Christ, then he enters into eternal life.
(Copyright ©02/2008)
It's Amazing
It’s amazing, that a sinner like me, can talk to The God of Eternity,
When I walk with Him each day, through fellowship, to God I pray,
The Lord God entered into my life, through His Son, Jesus Christ,
Who died at Calvary for my sin, so I could share my life with Him.
It’s amazing, that for me He died, as on a cross He was crucified,
Becoming a curse on that tree, to save this soul and set me free,
Freeing me from sin and death, as He breathed in me new breath,
From the New Life available to men, who in Christ are Born Again.
It’s amazing, how God uses us, if we surrender to His Son Jesus,
Mere mortals only made of dust, when in Christ we place all trust,
Helping to proclaim His Word, until all upon this earth have heard,
Life saving Truth of the Cross, and how He came for sinners lost.
It’s amazing, how He fills us first, with spiritual hunger and a thirst,
For The Eternal Word of God, as He leads us with a staff and rod,
As Christ teaches us to abide, by The Holy Spirit who lives inside,
Helping all believers to impart, The Truth God puts within our heart.
It’s truly amazing, that God above, would send to us, by His Love,
His One and Only Begotten Son, as God’s Sacrifice for everyone,
And all we have to do is believe, The Gospel Message we receive,
And accept the love of Jesus Christ, to gain from Him Eternal Life.
(Copyright ©03/2008)
With this soul
I thought my soul
Helped me fly as spirit
Until I felt my soul
Connected to the soil
Through my heart
Through my longing
And through my holding
Of the branches of a tree
I felt connected to all things
Through the ground
My soul is of this earth
In death
It is in the ground
I want to be buried
No cremation for me
But for now
I choose life I breathe life
I touch everything
With my bare hands
And give back what I can
With this soul
poem by Harriet James
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Life of St. Padre Pio of Pietrelcina (in verse)
A baby boy was born
To peasants, one fine morn;
And christened Francesco,
A day after birth, Oh!
Much pious was the lad,
In world so very bad;
He prayed a lot in life,
And didn’t mind any strife!
He loved to be a priest,
And work for Jesus Christ;
And loved the cassock brown
Of Capuchins in town!
He talked with Christ each day,
And guardian angel Fay;
And Mother Mary too –
His duty well, to do!
He joined the Friary,
As per his wish-diary;
And took his priestly vows,
In Capuchin’s main House!
He lived a humble life,
Despite his sickness rife;
And saw Christ in his dreams:
All crucified, it seems!
He chose the suff’ring way;
And so, in illness lay;
He took the prayer-key,
Opening Eternity!
God gave him unique gifts,
And spiritual uplifts;
He wrought miracles great,
And kept soul like clean slate.
He was a good preacher;
He was a good teacher;
And said the Holy Mass;
Heard confessions, Alas!
He loved the Holy Cross;
Christ Jesus was his boss;
He prayed the Rosary
Fervently to Mary.
He lived to ripe old age,
And turned to be a sage;
They saw him in places
Afar, with love’s gazes.
He used to tell others:
Pray, Hope – sisters, brothers;
And don’t worry at all:
God lifts you if you fall.
‘Confess your sins’, he said;
‘Fill soul with grace instead;
Avoid Almighty’s rod,
And take more souls to God.’
Christ’s stigmata, he had:
The wounds painfully bled;
But just before his death,
They healed with his last breath!
Christ’s stigmata, He bore,
For fifty years or more;
The crucifix, he held
All life, as God’s love welled!
Close to his heart, the Cross –
Yes, Jesus was his boss!
His love of God was great;
For sins, he had a hate.
A poor friar, he was,
And toiled for divine cause;
Despite a not good health,
But virtues – his one wealth!
God made him ‘Blessed’ soon,
And canonized him – boon
To Capuchin’s order,
That spread his good odor!
Even the earth, may be,
Without the sun surely;
But Holy Mass is one
Sacrifice of God’s Son!
Lovingly dedicated to St. Padre Pio
Copyright by Dr John Celes 5-20-2008
poem by John Celes
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