To Alfred Tennyson - 1883
Familiar with thy melody,
We go debating of its power,
As churls, who hear it hour by hour,
Contemn the skylark's minstrelsy -
As shepherds on a Highland lea
Think lightly of the heather flower
Which makes the moorland's purple dower,
As far away as eye can see.
Let churl or shepherd change his sky,
And labour in the city dark,
Where there is neither air nor room -
How often will the exile sigh
To hear again the unwearied lark,
And see the heather's lavish bloom!
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Related quotes
Nora's Vow
Hear what Highland Nora said, -
'The Earlie's son I will not wed,
Should all the race of nature die,
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands both far and near,
That ever valour lost o won,
I would not wed the Earlie's son.' -
'A maiden's vows,' old Callum spoke,
'Are lightly made and lightly broke;
The heather on the mountain's height
Begins to bloom in purple light;
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae;
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the Earlie's son.' -
'The swan,' she said, 'the lake's clear breast
May barter for the eagle's nest;
The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn;
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly;
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie's son.'
Still in the water-lily's shade
Her wonted nest the wild-swan made;
Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;
To shun the clash of foeman's steel,
No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel;
But Nora's heart is lost and won,
She's wedded to the Earlie's son!
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Purple Heather
(Intro not in English)
Oh the summer time is gone
And the leaves are sweetly turning
And the wild mountain thyme
Blooms across the purple heather
Will you go, lassie. go
If you will not go with me
I will never find another
To pick wild mountain thyme
All along the purple heather
Will you go, lassie, go
Lassie, go
I will build my love a tower
by the cool crystal waters
And I'll cling to her forever
Like the ivy to the heather
Will you go, lassie, go
*And we'll go together
To pick wild mountain thyme
All along the purple heather
Will you go, lassie, go
Lassie, go
(Not in English)
Will you go, lassie, go
(*Repeat)
And we'll all go together
Tp pull wild mountain thyme
All across the purple heather
Will you go, lassie, go
Lassie, go
Lassie, go
song performed by by Rod Stewart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Country Guy
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark his lay who thrill'd all day
Sits hush'd his partner nigh:
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade,
Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above
Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know--
But where is County Guy?
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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County Guy
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark his lay who thrill'd all day
Sits hush'd his partner nigh:
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade,
Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above
Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know--
But where is County Guy?
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Song -- County Guy
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark his lay who thrill'd all day
Sits hush'd his partner nigh:
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade,
Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above
Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know-
But where is County Guy?
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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A Serenade
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh
The sun has left the lea,
The orange-flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark, his lay who trill’d all day,
Sits hush’d his partner nigh;
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade
Her shepherd’s suit to hear;
To Beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above,
Now reigns o’er earth and sky,
And high and low the influence know—
But where is County Guy?
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Heather
A simple pulse, just one breathe
To my heart's delight, the name Heather
Solaces sorrow, on the precipice of death
Her name as fragile as a dove's feather
It possesses' a taste of heaven's solemnity sweet
When it's heard, an angel I hear; then an angel I meet.
Heather, Heather, Heather
On her feather I aspire to love's aesthetic
So heavenly thy sound, a voice prophetic
Says this is what Heaven's token can be;
A heavenly name Heather beautiful like she
So with her feather I brush
My tender melancholic cheek
A cherry burst I blush
And my soul weak..
Hearing thy name of the heaven's feather, solemnly sweet, the lovely Heather.
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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The Hare And The Fox
The fox lay still by the birch-tree's root
In the heather.
The hare was running with nimble foot
O'er the heather.
Was ever brighter a sunshine-day,
Before, behind me, and every way,
O'er the heather!
The fox laughed low by the birch-tree's root
In the heather.
The hare was running with daring foot
O'er the heather.
I am so happy for everything!
Hallo! Why go you with mighty spring
O'er the heather?
The fox lay hid by the birch-tree's root
In the heather.
The hare dashed to him with reckless foot
O'er the heather.
May God have mercy, but this is queer! --
Good gracious, how dare you dance so here
O'er the heather?
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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My Wilted Flower
Your waking dreams
I hear your screams
Of the hour
My wilted flower
All alone
Can’t go home
You must cower
My wilted flower
So much pain
Standing in the rain
You are not of power
My wilted flower
You run away
And there you stay
In the cold rain shower
My wilted flower
Memories of all the hate
Your horrible fate
They no longer tower
My wilted flower
In peace you die
I mustn’t cry
Your last hour
My wilted flower
~2009~
poem by Jennifer Cramer
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Pussy Power
An evil shadow across my brain
A certain buring that makes me insane
Shes on my beam oh no shes in my room
Shes al around me now and Im a tool
Pussy power
Pussy power
Pussy power
Pussy power
She wears a raincoat in the sun all day
She says she wants to have some fun, well, hey
She calls me over on the sidewalk
Shes got a joint, shes got a cute walk
Pussy power
Pussy power
Pussy power
Pussy power
Pussy power-hour by hour
Pussy power oh what a flower
I want to hold her close to me
cause pussy powers pulling me
Down
Down
Down
Down
When its there and I cant have it
I get real real rabid
Ive got to figure out a way
Im so pent-up, like this I cant stay
Ive got to look this in the eye
Im much too crazed, Im much too shy
But all in all, at least I am i
Oh my oh my oh my oh my
Pussy power
Pussy power
Pussy power
Pussy power
song performed by by Iggy Pop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love And Knowledge
THOUGH you and I so long have been so near--
Have felt each other's heart-beats hour by hour,
Have watered, plucked, and trampled passion's flower,
Have known so many days so very dear--
Yet still through every hour of every year
We have sought to win and failed to win the dower
Of perfect insight, and to gain the power
To see what we are, and not what we appear.
Yet you desire such knowledge--would possess,
You say, completion of love; if that were won
--Ah! by it might not haply be undone
The little measure of joy we knew before?
Though we should swear we loved each other more,
How surely we should love each other less!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Charms
She walks as lightly as the fly
Skates on the water in July.
To hear her moving petticoat
For me is music's highest note.
Stones are not heard, when her feet pass,
No more than tumps of moss or grass.
When she sits still, she's like the flower
To be a butterfly next hour.
The brook laughs not more sweet, when he
Trips over pebbles suddenly.
My Love, like him, can whisper low --
When he comes where green cresses grow.
She rises like the lark, that hour
He goes halfway to meet a shower.
A fresher drink is in her looks
Than Nature gives me, or old books.
When I in my Love's shadow sit,
I do not miss the sun one bit.
When she is near, my arms can hold
All that's worth having in this world.
And when I know not where she is,
Nothing can come but comes amiss.
poem by William Henry Davies
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The Secret of the Rose
Rose, a
symbol of
beauty, purity,
power, excellence.
An emblem
of silence,
a tear dropped
brought
her into
existence
Becoming
a lovely lady
remaining closed
around the
heart, preventing
distress
a rare flower.
copyright by heather burns
poem by Heather Burns
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Poor plastic Flower
My mother in law loves flower
This is our trial
My wife in denial
As she plants a flower
She has a brown thumb
This makes me glum
For she can’t even grow a plum
She has plastic flowers
And those took a powder
Poor plastic flower
A flower needs water
To give it power
She forget this every hour
That is why her flowers are powder
Her plastic flower had power
Until it's last hour
The vase did tower
As it was full of water
Poor plastic flower
poem by Keith Wells
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Purple Heather
Arranged by van morrison
Well the summertime has gone
And the leaves are gently turnin
And my love I wanna take you
To the place heart-a-yearnin
Will you go, lassie go
And well all go together
In the wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather
Will you go
And I will build my love a tower
At the foot of yonder mountain
And visit by the hour
From a lonely wooden tower
Will you go, lassie go
And well all go together
In the wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather
Come on
At the foot of yonder mountain
I will visit by the hour
With the lily of the valley
Go, will you go, lassie go
And well all go together
In the wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather
Will you go, lassie go
Will you go
Will you go, will you go
Will you go, lassie go
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Knight's Return
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
The were wolves mutter, the night hawks moan,
The raven croaks from the Raven-stone;
What care I for his boding groan,
Riding the moorland to come to mine own?
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
Long have I wander'd by land and by sea,
Long have I ridden by moorland and lea;
Yonder she sits with my babe on her knee,
Sits at the window and watches for me!
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
Written for music, 1857.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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Thoughts Of You #1
Smelling
a
fragrant
flower.
Feeling
the
softness
of
velvet
petals.
Memories
run
rampid
through
my mind.
On a
windy
day
when
leaves
sigh.
I listen
for your
voice
calling
my name.
Echoes
so
familiar.
Walking
in the
garden
in the
cool
of the
evening.
you are
there
waiting.
out of
sight.
Out of
reach
but ever
so near.
poem by Heather Burns
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Christmas Medley
What child is this / do you hear what I hear /
Joy to the world
What child is this who laid to rest
On marys lap is sleeping?
Whom angels greet with anthems sweet
While shepherds guard and angels sing
Haste, haste to bring him laud
The babe the son of mary
(do you) hear what I hear (6x)
Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear?
Ringing through the sky shepherd boy
Do you hear what I hear?
A song a song high above the trees
With a voice as big as the sea
With a voice as big as the sea
(do you) hear what I hear?
Joy to the world
(do you) hear what I hear?
Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king
So you know what I know?
In your palace warm mighty king
Do you know what I know?
The child the child sleeping in the night
He will bring us goodness and light
He will bring us goodness and light
(do you) hear what I hear?
Joy to the world
(do you) hear what I hear?
Joy to the world...
Joy to the world the lord is come
Let earth receive her king
Let every heart prepare him room
And heavn and nature sing
And heavn and nature sing
And heavn and heavn and nature sing
(do you) hear what I hear?
Joy to the world
(do you) hear what I hear?
Joy to the world
(do you) hear what I hear?
Joy to the world
(do you) hear what I hear?
Joy to the world
(somebody gotta tell ya)
Haste, haste to bring him laud
The babe the son of mary...
song performed by by Donna Summer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Loud Without the Wind Was Roaring
Loud without the wind was roaring
Through th' autumnal sky;
Drenching wet, the cold rain pouring,
Spoke of winter nigh.
All too like that dreary eve,
Did my exiled spirit grieve.
Grieved at first, but grieved not long,
Sweet—how softly sweet!—it came;
Wild words of an ancient song,
Undefined, without a name.
'It was spring, and the skylark was singing';
Those words they awakened a spell;
They unlocked a deep fountain, whose springing,
Nor absence, nor distance can quell.
In the gloom of a cloudy November
They uttered the music of May;
They kindled the perishing ember
Into fervour that could not decay.
Awaken, o'er all my dear moorland,
West-wind, in thy glory and pride!
Oh! call me from valley and lowland,
To walk by the hill-torrent's side!
It is swelled with the first snowy weather;
The rocks they are icy and hoar,
And sullenly waves the long heather,
And the fern leaves are sunny no more.
There are no yellow stars on the mountain
The bluebells have long died away
From the brink of the moss-bedded fountain—
From the side of the wintry brae.
But lovelier than corn-fields all waving
In emerald, and vermeil, and gold,
Are the heights where the north-wind is raving,
And the crags where I wandered of old.
It was morning: the bright sun was beaming;
How sweetly it brought back to me
The time when nor labour nor dreaming
Broke the sleep of the happy and free!
But blithely we rose as the dawn-heaven
Was melting to amber and blue,
And swift were the wings to our feet given,
As we traversed the meadows of dew.
For the moors! For the moors, where the short grass
Like velvet beneath us should lie!
For the moors! For the moors, where each high pass
Rose sunny against the clear sky!
For the moors, where the linnet was trilling
Its song on the old granite stone;
Where the lark, the wild sky-lark, was filling
Every breast with delight like its own!
What language can utter the feeling
Which rose, when in exile afar,
On the brow of a lonely hill kneeling,
I saw the brown heath growing there?
It was scattered and stunted, and told me
That soon even that would be gone:
It whispered, 'The grim walls enfold me,
I have bloomed in my last summer's sun.'
But not the loved music, whose waking
Makes the soul of the Swiss die away,
Has a spell more adored and heartbreaking
Than, for me, in that blighted heath lay.
The spirit which bent 'neath its power,
How it longed—how it burned to be free!
If I could have wept in that hour,
Those tears had been heaven to me.
Well—well; the sad minutes are moving,
Though loaded with trouble and pain;
And some time the loved and the loving
Shall meet on the mountains again!
poem by Emily Jane Brontë
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A Few Blocks Away From Thirty-Five
Your name must be Heather?
Because your face,
Seems locked into a jeer.
As if bad weather...
Has left you more than moised.
Your name must be Heather?
You must have been expecting someone,
Dressed in leather?
Or silk...
With a smooth grin.
Your name must be Heather,
The one who claims to have matched my profile...
With an unleashing of my wildest dreams.
But Heather?
You are a few years older than nineteen.
And it has been a long time,
Since I was a rich man at thirty-two!
That was thirty-one years ago, Heather.
And I am sure back then,
You were all of twenty-two.
Your name must be Heather?
Because your face,
Seems locked into a jeer.
As if bad weather...
Has left you more than moised.
You can unthaw in here.
You don't have to look as if you are shocked!
Yes,
You are correct.
This 'is' my natural voice.
And I am a few blocks away from thirty-five.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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