A Swinburnian Interlude
Short space shall be hereafter
Ere April brings the hour
Of weeping and of laughter,
Of sunshine and of shower,
Of groaning and of gladness,
Of singing and of sadness,
Of melody and madness,
Of all sweet things and sour.
Sweet to the blithe bucolic
Who knows nor cribs nor crams,
Who sees the frisky frolic
Of lanky little lambs;
But sour beyond expression
To one in deep depression
Who sees the closing session
And imminent exams.
He cannot hear the singing
Of birds upon the bents,
Nor watch the wildflowers springing,
Nor smell the April scents.
He gathers grief with grinding,
Foul food of sorrow finding
In books of dreary binding
And drearier contents.
One hope alone sustains him,
And no more hopes beside,
One trust alone restrains him
From shocking suicide;
He will not play nor palter
With hemlock or with halter,
He will not fear nor falter,
Whatever chance betide.
He knows examinations
Like all things else have ends,
And then come vast vacations
And visits to his friends,
And youth with pleasure yoking,
And joyfulness and joking,
And smilingness and smoking,
For grief to make amends.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
April Far Away
On the mossy ditch along the old bohreen
Wildflowers in their thousands are now to be seen
Bluebells and primroses and snowdrops in white
Bloom after the rains in the warm Spring sunlight.
Dandelions, buttercups and daisies in April are never rare
In the lush green fields they are seen everywhere
And the pink breasted bullfinch singing on the alder tree
Amidst all the greenery quite easy to see.
The wild birds are nesting and all through the day
The leafy groves echo to their songs in April far away
And young lambs in the fields around their mothers play
Youth must have it's fling you hear people say.
The lark carols above the mountain and the clear flowing rill
It babbles it's way down the field by the hill
On to join the big stream along by the hedgerow
That flows to the big river that to the sea flow.
The crab tree wears her blossoms of light pink to gray
And far north of here in April far away
The fox cubs in the sunshine play outside their den
And in fancy I hear the loud song of the wren.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Evening Music
Here comes the moment of the shimmering hour
When praise like incense trembles from each leaf.
The evening air is redolent with grief
And waltzes gush with melancholic power.
When praise like incense trembles from each leaf,
Only the notes of violins are sour
And waltzes gush with melancholic power;
The sky is vast with beauty and with grief.
Only the notes of violins are sour;
Each heart avoids its pit of unbelief.
The sky is vast with beauty and with grief;
The sun's blood hazes in a chilly shower.
Each heart avoids its pit of unbelief,
Gathering its flecks of light into a bower;
The sun's blood hazes in a chilly shower -
Only your shining image brings relief!
poem by Martin TURNER
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
April, Dear April
April, dear April, I beg you come soon –
And bring your sweet primroses too.
Let them join in with the daffodils’ play,
As skies offer sunshine anew.
April, dear April, my blessed spring child,
Ornate in your yellow and white,
Teasing the birds into trilling their songs
And dancing to music of flight.
April, dear April, come enter my dreams
And rid me from cold winter chills.
Banish the rain and those blustery winds
And warm up our countryside hills.
April, dear April, I know you can’t stay -
You have to move on ‘till next year.
And though I shall cherish the glory of summer,
You’ll always be my month most dear.
From: Succumbed to Thinking by Mark Raymond Slaughter, lulu.com
Copyright © Mark Raymond Slaughter 2009
All rights reserved
April April April April
April April April April
April April April April
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
April Again
April again! the willow wands are yellow
Rose-red the brambles that the passing wind knows,
Comes a robin's note like the note of a 'cello,
And across the valley, the calling of the crows,-
'April again!'
April again! and the marsh birds swinging
Over the rushes that belong to yester-year;
Silver shines the river, and young lips are singing
Songs as old as Eden-as old and as dear;
'April again!'
April again! with a wet wind blowing,
And along the western sky a pathway of gold;
Sounds a call to follow the road we're not knowing,
A new road-a wild road-o'er fairy lands unrolled,-
'April again!'
April again! with its wonder of gladness,
April with its haunting joy, and swift-stinging tears,-
Month of mist and music, and the old moon-madness,
Month of magic fluting, the spirit only hears,-
'April again!'
poem by Virna Sheard
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Blind Sight
I look but don’t see the real world in front of me.
Moments waste away with the details of my day.
Do I have enough? How can I get more stuff?
Can I have another win or fit in one more sin?
When I look I can’t see
What’s important to me.
I worship things and seek pleasure.
I can’t see what I should treasure.
Then a blind man told me, he lost his sight so he could see.
He sees why he conquered grief since his life is all too brief.
He sees that everlasting love is true language from above.
He sees that darkness is for sleeping, not sorrow and weeping.
His spirit senses kindness and thanks to his blindness,
He knows that with vision of heart and mind,
It’s only his eyes that will be blind.
poem by Gregory Huyette
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sweet Wild April
O sweet wild April
Came over the hills,
He skipped with the winds
And he tripped with the rills;
His raiment was all
Of the daffodils.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
O sweet wild April
Came down the lea,
Dancing along
With his sisters three:
Carnation, and Rose,
And tall Lily.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
O sweet wild April,
On pastoral quill
Came piping in moonlight
By hollow and hill,
In starlight at midnight,
By dingle and rill.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
Where sweet wild April
His melody played,
Trooped cowslip, and primrose,
And iris, the maid,
And silver narcissus,
A star in the shade.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
When sweet wild April
Dipped down the dale,
Pale cuckoopint brightened,
And windflower trail,
And white-thorn, the wood-bride,
In virginal veil.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
When sweet wild April
Through deep woods pressed,
Sang cuckoo above him,
And lark on his crest,
And Philomel fluttered
Close under his breast.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
O sweet wild April,
Wherever you went
The bondage of winter
Was broken and rent,
Sank elfin ice-city
And frost-goblin's tent.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
Yet sweet wild April,
The blithe, the brave,
Fell asleep in the fields
By a windless wave
And Jack-in-the-Pulpit
Preached over his grave.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
O sweet wild April,
Farewell to thee!
And a deep sweet sleep
To thy sisters three, -
Carnation, and Rose,
And tall Lily.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
poem by William Force Stead
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Birds in Urban Trees
When people see her in the street
On her way to work or the market place,
They see the sway of her dress
And the beauty of her face;
Such a wonderful woman they suppose
Without seeing her soul
Hidden from the world,
Without glancing the secret sadness she conceals.
Sometimes there is laughter at the bar,
Loud conversations at cafes,
Non-serious moments of seemingly joyfulness
Surrounding herself with friends,
But those friends fail to notice
The tears that linger within.
I’m not really better than the rest,
My imagination sees her singing in the moonlight
And wrapped in the embrace of a handsome man,
But somehow I know she is hurting
And I just want to walk her home
And pray with all the birds in urban trees
To keep her safe and make her happy.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A New Madrigal To An Old Melody
(It is supposed that Shadow-of-a-Leaf uses the word 'clear' in a
more ancient sense of 'beautiful.')
As along a dark pine-bough, in slender white mystery
The moon lay to listen, above the thick fern,
In a deep dreaming wood that is older than history
I heard a lad sing, and I stilled me to learn;
So rarely he lilted his long-forgot litany,--
_Fall, April; fall, April, in dew on our dearth!
Bring balm, and bring poppy, bring deep sleepy dittany
For Marian, our clear May, so long laid in earth._
Then I drew back the branches. I saw him that chanted it.
I saw his fool's bauble. I knew his old grief.
I knew that old greenwood and the shadow that haunted it,--
My fool, my lost jester, my _Shadow-of-a-Leaf_!
And 'why,' I said, 'why, all this while, have you left me so
Luckless in melody, lonely in mirth?'
'Oh, why,' he sang, 'why has this world then bereft me so
Soon of my Marian, so long laid in earth?
'In the years that are gone,' he said, 'love was more fortunate.
Grief was our minstrel of things that endure.
Now, ashes and dust and this world grow importunate.
Time has no sorrow that time cannot cure.
Once, we could lose, and the loss was worth cherishing.
Now, we may win, but, O, where is the worth?
Memory and true love,' he whispered, 'are perishing,
With Marian, our clear May, so long laid in earth.'
'Ah, no!' I said, 'no! Since we grieve for our grief again,
Touch the old strings! Let us try the old stave!
And memory may wake, like my _Shadow-of-a-Leaf_ again,
Singing of hope, in the dark, by a grave.'
So we sang it together--that long-forgot litany:--
_Fall, April; fall, April; bring new grief to birth.
Bring wild herb of grace, and bring deep healing dittany,
For Marian, our clear May, so long laid in earth._
poem by Alfred Noyes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Children
Come to me, O ye children!
For I hear you at your play,
And the questions that perplexed me
Have vanished quite away.
Ye open the eastern windows,
That look towards the sun,
Where thoughts are singing swallows
And the brooks of morning run.
In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine,
In your thoughts the brooklet's flow,
But in mine is the wind of Autumn
And the first fall of the snow.
Ah! what would the world be to us
If the children were no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
Worse than the dark before.
What the leaves are to the forest,
With light and air for food,
Ere their sweet and tender juices
Have been hardened into wood, --
That to the world are children;
Through them it feels the glow
Of a brighter and sunnier climate
Than reaches the trunks below.
Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear
What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.
For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks?
Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Reed Call For April
When April comes, and pelts with buds
And apple-blooms each orchard space,
And takes the dog-wood-whitened woods
With rain and sunshine of her moods,
Like your fair face, like your fair face:
It's honey for the bloom and dew,
And honey for the heart!
And, oh, to be away with you
Beyond the town and mart.
II.
When April comes, and tints the hills
With gold and beryl that rejoice,
And from her airy apron spills
The laughter of the winds and rills,
Like your young voice, like your young voice:
It's gladness for God's bending blue,
And gladness for the heart!
And, oh, to be away with you
Beyond the town and mart.
III.
When April comes, and binds and girds
The world with warmth that breathes above,
And to the breeze flings all her birds,
Whose songs are welcome as the words
Of you I love, of you I love:
It's music for all things that woo,
And music for the heart!
And, oh, to be away with you
Beyond the town and mart.
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Suicide Sweet Suicide
Suicide sweet suicide, I yearn to be near,
Yearn to be with you, but I dont out of fear,
Suicide sweet suicide, always on my mind,
Body cold and stiff, now my pain I've left behind,
Oh sweet suicide, please take me away,
R.I.P. to me, too bad I couldn't stay,
But the hurt was too much, tears I always weep,
Blade drags across my skin, this time I'm cutting deep,
Deep, deep, deep, deeper, than ever before,
Oh sweet suicide, don't make me suffer anymore,
Suicide sweet suicide, I'm escaping all of the harm,
And giving myself to you, so please accept me with open arms,
poem by Niakeva Thomas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Match
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf,
Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather,
Blown fields or flowerful closes,
Green pasture or gray grief;
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf.
If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune,
With double sound and single
Delight our lips would mingle,
With kisses glad as birds are
That get sweet rain at noon;
If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune.
If you were life, my darling,
And I your love were death,
We'd shine and snow together
Ere March made sweet the weather
With daffodil and starling
And hours of fruitful breath;
If you were life, my darling,
And I your love were death.
If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy,
We'd play for lives and seasons
With loving looks and treasons
And tears of night and morrow
And laughs of maid and boy;
If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy.
If you were April's lady,
And I were lord in May,
We'd throw with leaves for hours
And draw for days with flowers,
Till day like night were shady
And night were bright like day;
If you were April's lady,
And I were lord in May.
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain,
We'd hunt down love together,
Pluck out his flying-feather,
And teach his feet a measure,
And find his mouth a rein;
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
From you have I been absent in the spring... (Sonnet 98)
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him,
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odor and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew.
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.
poem by William Shakespeare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Eight Years Old
SUN, whom the faltering snow-cloud fears,
Rise, let the time of year be May,
Speak now the word that April hears,
Let March have all his royal way;
Bid all spring raise in winter’s ears
All tunes her children hear or play,
Because the crown of eight glad years
On one bright head is set to-day.
II.
What matters cloud or sun to-day
To him who wears the wreath of years
So many, and all like flowers at play
With wind and sunshine, while his ears
Hear only song on every way?
More sweet than spring triumphant hears
Ring through the revel-rout of May
Are these, the notes that winter fears.
III.
Strong-hearted winter knows and fears
The music made of love at play,
Or haply loves the tune he hears
From hearts fulfilled with flowering May,
Whose molten music thaws his ears
Late frozen, deaf but yesterday
To sounds of dying and dawning years,
Now quickened on his deathward way.
IV.
For deathward now lies winter’s way
Down the green vestibule of years
That each year brightens day by day
With flower and shower till hope scarce fears
And fear grows wholly hope of May.
But we—the music in our ears
Made of love’s pulses as they play
The heart alone that makes it hears.
V.
The heart it is that plays and hears
High salutation of to-day.
Tongue falters, hand shrinks back, song fears
Its own unworthiness to play
Fit music for those eight sweet years,
Or sing their blithe accomplished way.
No song quite worth a young child’s ears
Broke ever even from birds in May.
VI.
There beats not in the heart of May,
When summer hopes and springtide fears,
There falls not from the height of day,
When sunlight speaks and silence hears,
So sweet a psalm as children play
And sing, each hour of all their years,
Each moment of their lovely way,
And know not how it thrills our ears.
VII.
Ah child, what are we, that our ears
Should hear you singing on your way,
Should have this happiness? The years
Whose hurrying wings about us play
Are not like yours, whose flower-time fears
Nought worse than sunlit showers in May,
Being sinless as the spring, that hears
Her own heart praise her every day.
VIII.
Yet we too triumph in the day
That bare, to entrance our eyes and ears,
To lighten daylight, and to play
Such notes as darkness knows and fears,
The child whose face illumes our way,
Whose voice lifts up the heart that hears,
Whose hand is as the hand of May
To bring us flowers from eight full years.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Not guilty by the hour
‘Guilty or not guilty’, he asks
She says, ‘Not guilty by the hour’
Her face looking very sour
Not guilty by the day
If you look at things my way
I stand here a bruised flower
Helplessly ripped of all her power
Dreading been subjected
To another punishing shower
If today I am jailed
Then society has failed
It is he who should have been long nailed
So she says, ‘Not guilty by the hour’
Her face looking very sour
Not guilty by the day
If you look at things my way
Many a time I have cried
Knowing how hard I’ve tried
A victim of domestic violence
Dismissed by all as nonsense
Ignoring my pleas by pretence
Enduring yearly beatings and mental abuse
Even my public cries seemed to be of no use
As I stand before you all wrongly accused
With my very own hands
I have taken away a life
Without the use of a knife
But I’m not guilty by the hour
Her face looking very sour
Not guilty by the minute
If you take your time and sit
Examine every fact without prejudice bit by bit
Not guilty by the day
If you look at things my way
For with the drunkenness of a violent man
Sprung the madness of an innocent woman
Yet I profess to be hundred percent human
Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Those Sweet Words
What did you say?
I know I saw you singing
But my ears won't stop ringing
Long enough to hear
Those sweet words
What did you say?
End of the day
The hour hand has spun
And before the night is done
I just have to hear
Those sweet words
Spoken like a melody
All your love
Is a lost balloon
Rising up through the afternoon
'Til it could fit on the head of a pin
Come on in
Did you have a hard time sleeping?
Cuz the heavy moon was keeping
Me awake, and all I know is
I'm just glad to
See you again
See my love
Like a lost balloon
Rising up
Through the afternoon, and
Then you appeared
What did you say?
I know I saw you singing
But my ears won't stop ringing
Long enough to hear
Those sweet words
And your simple melody
I just have to hear
Those sweet words
Skoken like a melody
I just want to hear
Those sweet words
song performed by by Norah Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Softly, O! dropp mine eyes
Softly, O! dropp mine eyes, lest you be dry,
And make my heart with grief to melt and die.
Now pour out tears apace,
Now stay, O heavy case!
O sour sweet woe!
Alas! O grief! O joy! Why strive you so?
Can griefs and joys at once in one poor heart consent?
Then sigh and sing, rejoice, lament.
Ah me! O passions strange and violent!
Was never poor wretch so tormented:
Nor joy, nor grief can make my heart contented.
For while with joy I look on high,
Down, down I fall with grief, and die.
poem by John Wilbye
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
My Mother
God made my mother on an April day,
From sorrow and the mist along the sea,
Lost birds' and wanderers' songs and ocean spray,
And the moon loved her wandering jealously.
Beside the ocean's din she combed her hair,
Singing the nocturne of the passing ships,
Before her earthly lover found her there
And kissed away the music from her lips.
She came unto the hills and saw the change
That brings the swallow and the geese in turns.
But there was not a grief she deeméd strange,
For there is that in her which always mourns.
Kind heart she has for all on hill or wave
Whose hopes grew wings like ants to fly away.
I bless the God Who such a mother gave
This poor bird-hearted singer of a day.
poem by Francis Ledwidge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Birds of Spring
Birds of spring they
bring on so many things
sounds they send
to each other,
that only they
can understand
in their sweet
cheerful harmony.
Sweet smell in
the air this
beautiful april day
listening to these creatures.
Taking in the warmth
of the sun that
is so overdue, blue
skies beauty to the eye.
Birds in flight
from one tree
to the other, getting
ready to produce life.
Cool breezes this
day so fine to hear
birds of spring echoing
music to my ear.
Birds of spring
to many to mention you all,
Robbins, Wrens and Cardinals
or a few I see, oh so beautiful.
To hear their chirping
wondering what they're saying
at this moment
will sit here for awhile.
Sounds this day
so relaxing is it
to listen to these
birds of spring.
wrote 4-3-07
The Shadows Fell
April was a lovely girl, her warmth was in her eyes
And she and I would walk within the calm of clear blue skies
Too short our time together, and what time consisted of
I knew her well, the shadows fell
See, April was my love...
A young man then, I knew the things a young man knows
But somehow lost it all with age, I guess that's how it goes
But April understood, and in time revealed to me
Reflection, my direction
And what April was to be...
She became to me the way to love's soothing caress
The answers to all questions, life and love, were met with yes
All that April showed to me, my heart still now believes
To take her place, her smiling face
April love, my heart still grieves...
Our time together had the look, forever on it's face
The hands of time stood still for us, in arm, and sweet embrace
It wasn't meant to be for us, nor I to have the sound
But she was singing, bells were ringing
As she felt the darkened ground...
Too soon my April left me, to some higher plane I'm sure
To wait for me to come someday, and reminisce with her
To tell me why each tear was lost, each April that I cried
As love turned to loss, inside the cross
When my April died...
Winter's breath blows hard upon her memory now
But I remember April, springtime love and lifetime vow
Sometimes I can feel her touch, and feel the gentle breeze
The days and nights, the wrongs the rights
There are many thoughts of these...
Many years ago now, April's love had held my heart
Too many days, and nights spent now without, but not apart
And I would trade my todays, for yesterday to be...
With April once again, and back to when
April was my love, you see.......
poem by Dino Evans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!