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The Little Land

When at home alone I sit
And am very tired of it,
I have just to shut my eyes
To go sailing through the skies--
To go sailing far away
To the pleasant Land of Play;
To the fairy land afar
Where the Little People are;
Where the clover-tops are trees,
And the rain-pools are the seas,
And the leaves, like little ships,
Sail about on tiny trips;
And above the Daisy tree
Through the grasses,
High o'erhead the Bumble Bee
Hums and passes.

In that forest to and fro
I can wander, I can go;
See the spider and the fly,
And the ants go marching by,
Carrying parcels with their feet
Down the green and grassy street.
I can in the sorrel sit
Where the ladybird alit.
I can climb the jointed grass
And on high
See the greater swallows pass
In the sky,
And the round sun rolling by
Heeding no such things as I.

Through that forest I can pass
Till, as in a looking-glass,
Humming fly and daisy tree
And my tiny self I see,
Painted very clear and neat
On the rain-pool at my feet.
Should a leaflet come to land
Drifting near to where I stand,
Straight I'll board that tiny boat
Round the rain-pool sea to float.

Little thoughtful creatures sit
On the grassy coasts of it;
Little things with lovely eyes
See me sailing with surprise.
Some are clad in armour green--
(These have sure to battle been!)--
Some are pied with ev'ry hue,
Black and crimson, gold and blue;
Some have wings and swift are gone;--
But they all look kindly on.

When my eyes I once again
Open, and see all things plain:
High bare walls, great bare floor;
Great big knobs on drawer and door;
Great big people perched on chairs,
Stitching tucks and mending tears,
Each a hill that I could climb,
And talking nonsense all the time--
O dear me,
That I could be
A sailor on a the rain-pool sea,
A climber in the clover tree,
And just come back a sleepy-head,
Late at night to go to bed.

poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Related quotes

Forest Sprite

There was a little fairy
Sat beneath a tree -
Humming to her tiny self
A haunting melody;
Just a little tinkle
Was all that I could hear
Floating on the evening breeze
High and crystal clear;
Surrounded by a rainbow,
Sparkles lit the air -
Tiny wings did flutter
Sprinkling gold dust in her hair;
A tiny little forest sprite
Had slipped the bonds of space,
Perhaps a mere imagined thought
Had brought her to this place;
How sweet the sound she echoed
Within this forest spot -
Though I had never seen a sprite
Her image now I caught;
This tiny little fairy
Sat beneath a tree -
Humming to her tiny self
A haunting melody.

poem by Linda Ori
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The Sailor

I am not a man
Nor am I just a boy
I am the sailor
Sailing a different voyage.
I am sailing to the sun
Over the ocean deep and blue
Don't know where I am heading
Wont know when I am through.
I am sailing to the shore
To the places I have been before
Hoping just to hear
People cheer instead of fear.

I am not the truth
Nor am I just a lie
For i am the sailor
With the tears for you to cry.
I am sailing across the seas
To where I do not know
Till someone needs my needs
Calling through the snow.
I am steering the great boat
Navigating through the waves
Hoping that the truth will float
Instead of tears for me to know.

I am the only captain
Steering towards the rocks
With the waves across my brain
Pelting down like rain.
I will sail the seas forever
Till someone needs my help
Till then I pray for a lover
With needs to be felt.
I am not dead
Nor will I feel alive
Till I hear the world and you say
Never again will you cry.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
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The Beautiful Land Of Nod

Come, cuddle your head on my shoulder, dear,
Your head like the golden-rod,
And we will go sailing away from here
To the beautiful land of Nod.
Away from life’s hurry, and flurry, and worry,
Away from earth’s shadows and gloom,
To a world of fair weather we’ll float off together
Where the roses are always in bloom.

Just shut up your eyes, and fold your hands,
Your hands like the leaves of a rose,
And we will go sailing to those fair lands
That an atlas never shows.
On the North and the West they are bounded by rest,
On the South and the East by dreams;
‘Tis the country ideal, where nothing is real,
But everything only seems.

Just dropp down the curtains of your dear eyes,
Those eyes like a bright blue-bell,
And we will sail out under starlit skies
To the land where the fairies dwell.
Down the river of sleep our barque shall sweep,
Till it reaches the mystical isle
Which no man has seen, but where all have been,
And there we will pause for awhile.
I will croon you a song as we float along,
To that shore that is blessed of God,
Then ho! for that fair land, we’re off for that rare land,
That beautiful Land of Nod.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Flowers

All the names I know from nurse:
Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse,
Bachelor's buttons, Lady's smock,
And the Lady Hollyhock.

Fairy places, fairy things,
Fairy woods where the wild bee wings,
Tiny trees for tiny dames--
These must all be fairy names!

Tiny woods below whose boughs
Shady fairies weave a house;
Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme,
Where the braver fairies climb!

Fair are grown-up people's trees,
But the fairest woods are these;
Where, if I were not so tall,
I should live for good and all.

poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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The Giving Tree

Once there was a tree....
and she loved a little boy.
And everyday the boy would come
and he would gather her leaves
and make them into crowns
and play king of the forest.
He would climb up her trunk
and swing from her branches
and eat apples.
And they would play hide-and-go-seek.
And when he was tired,
he would sleep in her shade.
And the boy loved the tree....
very much.
And the tree was happy.
But time went by.
And the boy grew older.
And the tree was often alone.
Then one day the boy came to the tree
and the tree said, 'Come, Boy, come and
climb up my trunk and swing from my
branches and eat apples and play in my
shade and be happy.'
'I am too big to climb and play' said
the boy.
'I want to buy things and have fun.
I want some money?'
'I'm sorry,' said the tree, 'but I
have no money.
I have only leaves and apples.
Take my apples, Boy, and sell them in
the city. Then you will have money and
you will be happy.'
And so the boy climbed up the
tree and gathered her apples
and carried them away.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time....
and the tree was sad.
And then one day the boy came back
and the tree shook with joy
and she said, 'Come, Boy, climb up my trunk
and swing from my branches and be happy.'
'I am too busy to climb trees,' said the boy.
'I want a house to keep me warm,' he said.
'I want a wife and I want children,
and so I need a house.
Can you give me a house ?'
' I have no house,' said the tree.
'The forest is my house,
but you may cut off
my branches and build a
house. Then you will be happy.'

And so the boy cut off her branches
and carried them away
to build his house.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time.
And when he came back,
the tree was so happy
she could hardly speak.
'Come, Boy,' she whispered,
'come and play.'
'I am too old and sad to play,'
said the boy.
'I want a boat that will
take me far away from here.
Can you give me a boat?'
'Cut down my trunk
and make a boat,' said the tree.
'Then you can sail away...
and be happy.'
And so the boy cut down her trunk
and made a boat and sailed away.
And the tree was happy
... but not really.

And after a long time
the boy came back again.
'I am sorry, Boy,'
said the tree,' but I have nothing
left to give you -
My apples are gone.'
'My teeth are too weak
for apples,' said the boy.
'My branches are gone,'
said the tree. ' You
cannot swing on them - '
'I am too old to swing
on branches,' said the boy.
'My trunk is gone, ' said the tree.
'You cannot climb - '
'I am too tired to climb' said the boy.
'I am sorry,' sighed the tree.
'I wish that I could give you something....
but I have nothing left.
I am just an old stump.
I am sorry....'
'I don't need very much now,' said the boy.
'just a quiet place to sit and rest.
I am very tired.'
'Well,' said the tree, straightening
herself up as much as she could,
'well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting
Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest.'
And the boy did.
And the tree was happy.

poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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The Lure of Trees

I honour all trees well; but, best of all,
I love those scarred old veterans, proud and tall,
Gazing from eminences, kingly wise,
Across great sweeps of changing earth and skies;
Gazing with seeming scorn upon the race
Of midgets who despoil this forest place
The restless race of men who, with edged tools,
With fire, have come to serve the end of fools.

Well these patricians know their own high worth;
Well know their task in serving Mother Earth:
Beckoning rain-clouds sailing overhead
That earth may drink and living things be fed,
Clutching with myriad roots the precious soil
The sun or sudden flood else would despoil,
Bending to tempests, spreading to the sky,
Remote, untamed, unconquered till they die.

I know them in the rose light of the dawn,
Sharp-etched upon the hill-tops, boldly drawn
Against the light. I know them at high noon,
Their gleaming arms held up, as for the boon
Of life they offer thanks; know them at night
When, out against the moon's enriching light,
Some bold phalanger launches from their tops
And, like a falling leaf, swings down and drops.

And still come stupid men with axe and fire
Scattering death to serve some brief desire.
'More than our lives are forfeit,' says the tree,
'For as we go, so man's prosperity
Goes with us, till this once green, gracious hill
Shall thirst in vain, when you have wrought your fill.'
I love, I honour all those forest kings;
They are such wise, such proudly scornful things.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Mountains In The Mist

Several times, uncontiously
I've stumbled upon the path
And seen a mountain in the mist
As rain falls on my shoulders
Sun rises in the east
A mourning bruise
but I am here at least
I guess im just an obsticle
A thing to overcome
If I could sneek around myself
Again I'll know I've won
The moment seems to hang and float
Before me with no end
'till I'm released, awaken beast
I'm on the road again
But now i'm soaring far to high
A fleck of dust upin the sky
Where tiny clouds go sailing by
Pull me down today
Woven in the fairy-tales
We fabricate each day
Our little golden strands of truth
That glimmer in the light
The colorful material
You hold a certin way
Can keep us from the cold
And help to get us through the night
But now i'm soaring far to high
A fleck of dust upin the sky
Where tiny clouds go sailing by
Pull me down today x4
oooooooooooooo
oooooooooooooo

song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Summer Pool

THERE is a singing in the summer air,
The blue and brown moths flutter o’er the grass,
The stubble bird is creaking in the wheat,
And perch’d upon the honeysuckle-hedge
Pipes the green linnet. Oh, the golden world!
The stir of life on every blade of grass,
The motion and the joy on every bough,
The glad feast everywhere, for things that love
The sunshine, and for things that love the shade!

Aimlessly wandering with weary feet,
Watching the wool white clouds that wander by,
I come upon a lonely place of shade,—
A still green Pool, where with soft sound and stir
The shadows of o’erhanging branches sleep,
Save where they leave one dreamy space of blue,
O’er whose soft stillness ever and anon
The feathery cirrus blows. Here unaware
I pause, and leaning on my staff I add
A shadow to the shadows; and behold!
Dim dreams steal down upon me, with a hum
Of little wings, a murmuring of boughs,
The dusky stir and motion dwelling here,
Within this small green world. O’ershadow’d
By dusky greenery, tho’ all around
The sunshine throbs on fields of wheat and bean,
Downward I gaze into the dreamy blue,
And pass into a waking sleep, wherein
The green boughs rustle, feathery wreaths of cloud
Pass softly, piloted by golden airs:
The air is still,—no birds sing any more,—
And helpless as a tiny flying thing,
I am alone in all the world with God.

The wind dies—not a leaf stirs—on the Pool
The fly scarce moves; earth seems to hold her breath
Until her heart stops, listening silently
For the far footsteps of the coming rain!

While thus I pause, it seems that I have gain’d
New eyes to see; my brain grows sensitive
To trivial things that, at another hour,
Had pass’d unheeded. Suddenly the air
Shivers, the shadows in whose midst I stand
Tremble and blacken—the blue eye o’ the Pool
Is clos’d and clouded; with a sudden gleam
Oiling its wings, a swallow darteth past,
And weedling flowers beneath my feet thrust up
Their leaves, to feel the fragrant shower. Oh, hark!
The thirsty leaves are troubled into sighs,
And up above me, on the glistening boughs,
Patters the summer rain!

Into a nook,
Screen’d by thick foliage of oak and beech,
I creep for shelter; and the summer shower
Murmurs around me. Oh, the drowsy sounds!
The pattering rain, the numerous sigh of leaves,
The deep, warm breathing of the scented air,
Sink sweet into my soul—until at last,
Comes the soft ceasing of the gentle fall,
And lo! the eye of blue within the Pool
Opens again, while with a silvern gleam
Dew diamonds twinkle moistly on the leaves,
Or, shaken downward by the summer wind,
Fall melting on the Pool in rings of light!

poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
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The Song of the Ungirt Runners

We swing ungirded hips,
And lightened are our eyes,
The rain is on our lips,
We do not run for prize.
We know not whom we trust
Nor whitherward we fare,
But we run because we must
Through the great wide air.

The waters of the seas
Are troubled as by storm.
The tempest strips the trees
And does not leave them warm.
Does the tearing tempest pause?
Do the tree-tops ask it why?
So we run without a cause
'Neath the big bare sky.

The rain is on our lips,
We do not run for prize.
But the storm the water whips
And the wave howls to the skies.
The winds arise and strike it
And scatter it like sand,
And we run because we like it
Through the broad bright land.

poem by Charles Hamilton Sorley
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The Clover

Some sings of the lily, and daisy, and rose,
And the pansies and pinks that the Summertime
throws
In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays
Blinkin' up at the skyes through the sunshiney days;
But what is the lily and all of the rest
Of the flowers, to a man with a hart in his brest
That was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew
Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew?
I never set eyes on a clover-field now,
Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow,
But my childhood comes back jest as clear and as plane
As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again;
And I wunder away in a bare-footed dream,
Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleam
With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love
Ere it wept ore the graves that I'm weepin' above.

And so I love clover--it seems like a part
Of the sacerdest sorrows and joys of my hart;
And wharever it blossoms, oh, thare let me bow
And thank the good God as I'm thankin' Him now;
And I pray to Him still fer the stren'th when I die,
To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye,
And lovin'ly nestle my face in its bloom
While my soul slips away on a breth of purfume

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Sailing Ships

(coverdale/vandenberg)
Do you remember
Standing on the shore,
Head in the clouds,
Your pockets filled with dreams
Bound for glory
On the seven seas of life,
But, the ocean is deeper than it seems
The wind was with you
When you left on the morning tide,
You set your sail for an island in the sun,
On the horizon, dark clouds up ahead,
For the storm has just begun
Take me with you,
Take me far away,
Lead me to the distant shore
Sail your ship across the water,
Spread your wings across the sky
Take the time to see
Youre the one who holds the key,
Or sailing ships will pass you by
You cry for mercy,
When you think youve lost your way,
You drift alone, if all your hope is gone
So find the strength and you will see
You control, your destiny,
After all is said and done
So take me with you,
Take me far away,
An lead me to the distant shore
Sail your ship across the water,
Spread your wings across the sky
Take the time to see
Youre the one who holds the key,
Or sailing ships will pass,
Sailing ships will pass you,
Sailing ships will pass you by...
Take me with you,
Take me far away,
Well ride the wind across the sky
Spread your wings and you will see
You control, your destiny,
So sailing ships dont pass you by
So take me with you,
Take me far away,
Well ride the wind across the sky
Spread your wings and you will see
You control, your destiny,
So sailing ships dont pass,
So sailing ships dont pass you,
So sailing ships dont pass you by...
Baby, baby, baby, baby,
Youll find that youre the only one
Can sail your ship across the sky

song performed by by Whitesnake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Our Land

Our land of Australia, this country so wide,
Where on holidays, you can find somewhere to hide;
Away from the noise, to the county, or the sea side,
A place to call home awhile, watch the incoming tide.

Our Land is made of states, and mountains so high,
Where you can climb, watch the scenes, and give a sigh;
The vastness as you look around, and thank the good Lord,
For His creation, of beauty, then I see as I read His Word,

Our land of creatures, wild, fauna, roaming so free,
And the many colours, of the creatures that my eyes do see;
From the large emu, to the tiniest lizard, crawling near me,
I then thank the good Lord, these things were meant to be.

Our land of mountains, and the rivers and sea that's here,
The flora spread around, their colors so close and near.
Reminds me of the rainbow, and Gods promise so dear,
That God made creation for us, with His Love, takes away fear.

Our land of many places, and a nation to behold,
To think of the trees standing tall, some very old;
And then in the ground, we find some beauty, as Gold,
But then look at the brave hearts of a patient, who is Bold.

Our land so big, Yet from a plane so very high,
Looks so tiny, like ants, crawling all by;
Look at the fish, swimming around, in the sea, oh I sigh,
Thank you Dear Lord, for everything, I've seen by and by.

poem by Margaret Haig
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Lover's Gifts XVI: She Dwelt Here by the Pool

She dwelt here by the pool with its landing-stairs in ruins. Many
an evening she had watched the moon made dizzy by the shaking of
bamboo leaves, and on many a rainy day the smell of the wet earth
had come to her over the young shoots of rice.
Her pet name is known here among those date-palm groves and
in the courtyards where girls sit and talk while stitching their
winter quilts. The water in this pool keeps in its depth the memory
of her swimming limbs, and her wet feet had left their marks, day
after day, on the footpath leading to the village.
The women who come to-day with their vessels to the water have
all seen her smile over simple jests, and the old peasant, taking
his bullocks to their bath, used to stop at her door every day to
greet her.
Many a sailing-boat passes by this village; many a traveller
takes rest beneath that banyan tree; the ferry-boat crosses to
yonder ford carrying crowds to the market; but they never notice
this spot by the village road, near the pool with its ruined
landing-stairs,-where dwelt she whom I love.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Mother India

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
You are the paradise on earth
Where things are not in any dearth.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

In Your Lap live men and women
Of every caste and religion.
You rain your love and affection
On them all without distinction.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

You have got a peculiar trait
Due to which you are very great.
You adopt the foreigners too,
Who like to live and die for you.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

You are beautiful, all perfect;
You are rich in every aspect.
In the ancient times, we have heard,
Aliens called you ‘a golden bird’

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

The mountains guard your honour here;
The ocean washes your feet there.
The rivers contain sweet water
Which for us is just like nectar.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

Our culture is ancient and high,
We are respected that is why.
Culture has bound us by and by,
With a chain of pure love and tie.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

We are sorry here live some men
Who are not loyal, but still then,
Pose as lovers of this nation,
Whom we do not like to mention.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

We are sorry here live some men;
Fire of hatred they ever fan.
Freedom, we fear, may not be lost,
Which we have got at a great cost.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

Let us be wise not to be tool
Of selfish powers which befool
Those who do not well understand
Their aim which is behind their stand.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

We will be lucky, if we die
For you, O Gracious Country High!
We’ll give them a fitting reply,
Who see you with a slanting eye.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

poem by Aziz Ahmad
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Rain in Summer

How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters along the roofs,
Like the tramp of hoofs
How it gushes and struggles out
From the throat of the overflowing spout!

Across the window-pane
It pours and pours;
And swift and wide,
With a muddy tide,
Like a river down the gutter roars
The rain, the welcome rain!

The sick man from his chamber looks
At the twisted brooks;
He can feel the cool
Breath of each little pool;
His fevered brain
Grows calm again,
And he breathes a blessing on the rain.

From the neighboring school
Come the boys,
With more than their wonted noise
And commotion;
And down the wet streets
Sail their mimic fleets,
Till the treacherous pool
Ingulfs them in its whirling
And turbulent ocean.

In the country, on every side,
Where far and wide,
Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide,
Stretches the plain,
To the dry grass and the drier grain
How welcome is the rain!

In the furrowed land
The toilsome and patient oxen stand;
Lifting the yoke encumbered head,
With their dilated nostrils spread,
They silently inhale
The clover-scented gale,
And the vapors that arise
From the well-watered and smoking soil.
For this rest in the furrow after toil
Their large and lustrous eyes
Seem to thank the Lord,
More than man's spoken word.

Near at hand,
From under the sheltering trees,
The farmer sees
His pastures, and his fields of grain,
As they bend their tops
To the numberless beating drops
Of the incessant rain.
He counts it as no sin
That he sees therein
Only his own thrift and gain.

These, and far more than these,
The Poet sees!
He can behold
Aquarius old
Walking the fenceless fields of air;
And from each ample fold
Of the clouds about him rolled
Scattering everywhere
The showery rain,
As the farmer scatters his grain.

He can behold
Things manifold
That have not yet been wholly told,--
Have not been wholly sung nor said.
For his thought, that never stops,
Follows the water-drops
Down to the graves of the dead,
Down through chasms and gulfs profound,
To the dreary fountain-head
Of lakes and rivers under ground;
And sees them, when the rain is done,
On the bridge of colors seven
Climbing up once more to heaven,
Opposite the setting sun.

Thus the Seer,
With vision clear,
Sees forms appear and disappear,
In the perpetual round of strange,
Mysterious change
From birth to death, from death to birth,
From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth;
Till glimpses more sublime
Of things, unseen before,
Unto his wondering eyes reveal
The Universe, as an immeasurable wheel
Turning forevermore
In the rapid and rushing river of Time.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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