At the Wars
Now that I am ta'en away
And may not see another day
What is it to my eye appears?
What sound rings in my stricken ears?
Not even the voice of any friend
Or eyes beloved-world-without-end,
But scenes and sounds of the country-side
In far England across the tide:
An upland field when spring's begun,
Mellow beneath the evening sun….
A circle of loose and lichened wall
Over which seven red pines fall….
An orchard of wizen blossoming trees
Wherein the nesting chaffinches
Begin again the self-same song
All the late April day-time long….
Paths that lead a shelving course
Between the chalk scarp and the gorse
By English downs; and oh! too well
I hear the hidden, clanking bell
Of wandering sheep…. I see the brown
Twilight of the huge, empty down
Soon blotted out! for now a lane
Glitters with warmth of May-time rain.
And on a shooting briar I see
A yellow bird who sings to me.
O yellow-hammer, once I heard
Thy yaffle when no other bird
Could to my sunk heart comfort bring;
But now I could not have thee sing
So sharp thy note is with the pain
Of England I may not see again!
Yet sing thy song: there answereth
Deep in me a voice which saith:
'The gorse upon the twilit down,
The English loam so sunset brown,
The bowed pines and the sheep-bells' clamour,
The wet, lit lane and the yellow-hammer,
The orchard and the chaffinch song
Only to the Brave belong.
And he shall lose their joy for aye
If their price he cannot pay.
Who shall find them dearer far
Enriched by blood alter long war.
'
poem by Robert Nichols
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Related quotes
In The Prime Of September
The paddocks looking yellow where the capeweed does bloom
And bright golden flowers on the gorse and the broom
And the flute of the shrike thrush is pleasant to hear
In the prime of September in the Spring of the year
At this time of year the musical magpies they sing day and night
How pleasant to hear them piping in the moonlight
And blackbird by his voice you cannot get wrong
He welcomes the dawn of the day with a song
Frisky lambs in the paddocks are frolicking about
When the Goddess of Spring is in the Land of the south
The laughter of the kookaburra the call of the weerloo
The big dark brown bird better known as yellow tail black cockatoo
Fruit bearing trees in blossom and nesting birds sing
In the prime of September in the southern Spring.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Lane
Some day, I think, there will be people enough
In Froxfield to pick all the blackberries
Out of the hedges of Green Lane, the straight
Broad lane where now September hides herself
In bracken and blackberry, harebell and dwarf gorse.
To-day, where yesterday a hundred sheep
Were nibbling, halcyon bells shake to the sway
Of waters that no vessel ever sailed ...
It is a kind of spring: the chaffinch tries
His song. For heat it is like summer too.
This might be winter's quiet. While the glint
Of hollies dark in the swollen hedges lasts -
One mile - and those bells ring, little I know
Or heed if time be still the same, until
The lane ends and once more all is the same.
poem by Edward Thomas
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My Song
I have no song
But still I sing
I let my voice
Fly on wing
For even though
My heart is bare
I have a song
Yet to spare
The song I sing
It has not one word
But far and wide
It's ever heard
My song is
Universal see
Song of wild
Always free
Sung by many
Sung by one
Sung beneath
A dying sun
Song of joy
Yet song of pain
Song of long nights
In the rain
Song of battles
Song of strife
Song of death
But also life
I'll sing untill
I have no breath
And then I'll sing
My song in death
poem by Anonymous Ghurl
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May Song
BIRDS in the green of my garden
Blackbirds and throstle and wren,
Wet your dear wings in the tears that are Spring's
And so to your singing again!
Birds in my blossoming orchard,
Chaffinch and goldfinch and lark,
Preen your bright wings, little happy live things;
The May trees grow white in the park!
Birds in the leafy wet woodlands,
Cuckoo and nightingale brown,
Sing to the sound of the rain on green ground--
The rain on green leaves dripping down!
Fresh with the rain of the May-time,
Rich with the promise of June,
Deep in her heart, where the little leaves part,
Love, like a bird, sings in tune!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Out Of The Fulness Of The Heart The Mouth Speaketh
In answer to those who have said that English Poets
give no personal love to their country.
ENGLAND, my country, austere in the clamorous council of nations,
Set in the seat of the mighty, wielding the sword of the strong,
Have we but sung of your glory, firm in eternal foundations?
Are not your woods and your meadows the core of our heart and our song?
O dear fields of my country, grass growing green, glowing golden,
Green in the patience of winter, gold in the pageant of spring,
Oaks and young larches awaking, wind-flowers and violets blowing,
What, if God sets us to singing, what save you shall we sing?
Who but our England is fair through the veil of her poets' praises,
What but the pastoral face, the fruitful, beautiful breast?
Are not your poets' meadows starred with the English daisies?
Were not the wings of their song-birds fledged in an English nest?
Songs of the leaves in the sunlight, songs of the fern-brake in shadow,
Songs of the world of the woods and songs of the marsh and the mere,
Are they not English woods, dear English marshland and meadow?
Have not your poets loved you? England, are you not dear?
Shoulders of upland brown laid dark to the sunset's bosom,
Living amber of wheat, and copper of new-ploughed loam,
Downs where the white sheep wander, little gardens in blossom,
Roads that wind through the twilight up to the lights of home.
Lanes that are white with hawthorn, dykes where the sedges shiver,
Hollows where caged winds slumber, moorlands where winds wake free,
Sowing and reaping and gleaning, spring and torrent and river,
Are they not more, by worlds, than the whole of the world can be?
Is there a corner of land, a furze-fringed rag of a by-way,
Coign of your foam-white cliffs or swirl of your grass-green waves,
Leaf of your peaceful copse, or dust of your strenuous highway,
But in our hearts is sacred, dear as our cradles, our graves?
Is not each bough in your orchards, each cloud in the skies above you,
Is not each byre or homestead, furrow or farm or fold,
Dear as the last dear drops of the blood in the hearts that love you,
Filling those hearts till the love is more than the heart can hold?
Therefore the song breaks forth from the depths of the hidden fountain
Singing your least frail flower, your raiment of seas and skies,
Singing your pasture and cornfield, fen and valley and mountain,
England, desire of my heart, England, delight of mine eyes!
Take my song too, my country: many a son and debtor
Pays you in praise and homage out of your gifts' full store;
Life of my life, my England, many will praise you better,
None, by the God that made you, ever can love you more!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Evensong
It is late, on a cold, dark, wintry afternoon;
Up high in a tree, a small bird merrily croons.
Trade in the town, has now begun to wind down,
And taking centre stage, is the bird’s sweet sound.
Like an operatic singer, his voice soars high,
And his song delights many, as they pass by.
Your ears can not help, but hear his loud call,
As the sun, once again, sets and darkness falls.
He sings for joy, at the very top of his voice;
To listen to his song, you have little choice.
He sits at the very top of the tallest tree,
Singing so loudly; his heart full of glee.
His plaintive call pierces the cool air,
As he sings his song, without a care.
A pure quality, his sweet song holds,
And he sings it out, so bright and bold.
His singsong attracts many a nice comment;
His performance appears to be Heaven sent.
Of his captivated audience, he is unaware;
His song boasts beauty, beyond compare.
Like a church choir, as they sing evensong,
This small bird sings so very keen and strong.
Through the dark streets, home, I wearily wind;
Sad to be leaving the bird’s sweet song behind.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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My Playmate
The pines were dark on Ramoth hill,
Their song was soft and low;
The blossoms in the sweet May wind
Were falling like the snow.
The blossoms drifted at our feet,
The orchard birds sang clear;
The sweetest and the saddest day
It seemed of all the year.
For, more to me than birds or flowers,
My playmate left her home,
And took with her the laughing spring,
The music and the bloom.
She kissed the lips of kith and kin,
She laid her hand in mine
What more could ask the bashful boy
Who fed her father's kine?
She left us in the bloom of May
The constant years told o'er
Their seasons with as sweet May morns,
But she came back no more.
I walk, with noiseless feet, the round
Of uneventful years;
Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring
And reap the autumn ears.
She lives where all the golden year
Her summer roses blow;
The dusky children of the sun
Before her come and go.
There haply with her jewelled hands
She smooths her silken gown,-
No more the homespun lap wherein
I shook the walnuts down.
The wild grapes wait us by the brook,
The brown nuts on the hill,
And still the May-day flowers make sweet
The woods of Follymill.
The lilies blossom in the pond,
The bird builds in the tree,
The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill
The slow song of the sea.
I wonder if she thinks of them,
And how the old time seems,-
If ever the pines of Ramoth wood
Are sounding in her dreams.
I see her face, I hear her voice;
Does she remember mine?
And what to her is now the boy
Who fed her father's kine?
What cares she that the orioles build
For other eyes than ours,-
That other hands with nuts are filled,
And other laps with flowers?
O playmate in the golden time!
Our mossy seat is green,
Its fringing violets blossom yet,
The old trees o'er it lean.
The winds so sweet with birch and fern
A sweeter memory blow;
And there in spring the veeries sing
The song of long ago.
And still the pines of Ramoth wood
Are moaning like the sea,-
The moaning of the sea of change
Between myself and thee!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Old England
Man looks up on a yellow sky
And the rain turns to rust in his eye
Rumours of his health are lies
Old england is dying
His clothes are dirty shade of blue
And his ancient shoes worn through
He steals from me and he lies to you
Old england is dying
Still he sings an empires song
And he keeps his navy strong
And he sticks his flag where it ill belongs
Old england is dying
Youre asking what makes me sigh now
What it is makes me shudder so
Well
I just freeze in the wind
And Im numb from the pummeling of the snow
That falls from high in yellow skies
Where the time stained of england flies
Where the homes are warm and the mothers sigh
Where comedians laugh and babies cry
Where criminals are televised politicians fraternize
Journalists are dignified and everyone is civilised
And children stare with heroin eyes
Old england!
Evening has fallen
The swans are singing
The last of sundays bells is ringing
The wind in the trees is sighing
And old england is dying
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Old England
Man looks up on a yellow sky
And the rain turns to rust in his eye
Rumours of his health are lies
Old england is dying
His clothes are dirty shade of blue
And his ancient shoes worn through
He steals from me and he lies to you
Old england is dying
Still he sings an empires song
And he keeps his navy strong
And he sticks his flag where it ill belongs
Old england is dying
Youre asking what makes me sigh now
What it is makes me shudder so
Well
I just freeze in the wind
And Im numb from the pummeling of the snow
That falls from high in yellow skies
Where the time stained of england flies
Where the homes are warm and the mothers sigh
Where comedians laugh and babies cry
Where criminals are televised politicians fraternize
Journalists are dignified and everyone is civilised
And children stare with heroin eyes
Old england!
Evening has fallen
The swans are singing
The last of sundays bells is ringing
The wind in the trees is sighing
And old england is dying
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It's Just A Song (Lyric) :
You hear the sound of the song.
It's coming on real strong.
It gives you a sense of strength.
it filters through the air.
It lifts you off the ground.
We hear from town to town.
It's just a song-sung-long.
A sing-a-long-song-sung.
It's just a song.
it's just a song.
A sing-a-long-song-sung.
It's just a song.
It takes you out in space.
Closer to second base.
It follows through so cool.
The smoothest thing for you.
A sound that sounds so clear.
A sound you'll want to hear.
It's just a song-sung-long.
A sing-a-long-song-sung.
It's just a song.
It's just a song.
It's just a-song-sung-long.
A sing-a-long-song-sung.
It's just a song.
It sends you through the air.
A sound that makes you high.
It makes you feel so good.
A sound that always should.
Just lifts you off the ground.
We hear from town to town.
It's just a-song-sung-long.
A sing-a-long-song-sung.
It's just a song.
It's just a song.
It's just a-song-sung-long.
A sing-a-long-song-sung.
It's just a song.
it's just a song..
Song-Lyric-Poetry by Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 1989,2009..
ALL rights reserved..
See>>www.edwardspoetry.com
poem by Kim Robin Edwards
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Listen to The Song of Invisible Bird!
Listen to The Song of that invisible bird,
The Song of great singer several souls heard,
Sings sitting on tree of life, hidden under every leaf,
Its song go unheard by those pretend deaf,
Ever tuned to that great music,
Everytime it sings same song,
But with different lyrics and different words,
Autumn may come followed by spring,
Leaves may fall to make way to new,
Each leaf has that song, the bird flies under cover of green leaf,
When old yellow one fall,
Green leaves should learn from the fall of the old!
One can wait flowers to bloom,
Or can reap all fruits mature,
or remove immature buds or raw fruits,
The tree of life spread to several worlds,
One parallel to other,
Makes one world happy by another,
some may cross and intersect,
only to give or take life!
Come an sit near a flower,
Look at frog waiting for insects to come,
The invisible bird sings its song,
May it be heart of the flower,
It is flower for you,
source of nectar to insects,
place where frog gets its food!
It is cage for that bird ready to fly,
enters as nectar into insect,
and it enters frog as insects,
and moves along food chain,
It may be invisible to these eyes,
Yet it has its flight can be seen,
Look at your heart, the same bird sing,
Who knows when and where is its next flight?
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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When I Will Sing My Own Song
A time may come when i'll sing my own song,
And that time is coming fast.
I'll sing my own song,
Perhaps a lyrical song coloured with joy,
And maybe a dirge bursting with sorrow
A time will come then i'll sing my own song,
A song in praise of fallen heroes,
A song in huge honour of hunger
A song for incessant insecurity,
A song of unemployment.
One thing i don't know
Is whether the church will sing to this song,
And dance to its tunes, or make it
A song for offering of offerings
I don't know whether to make it secular;
If it be ungodly, perhaps it may be a hit.
When i'll sing my own song
Children will hop over hills in awe;
Mothers will sing its tune mutely,
And fathers will remain unsure whether to join
Not long, i will sing a song.
I will sing to my own song,
Then the world know i desired peace,
And love, and accord.
Then the world will know
I'm tired of wanton carnages,
And famines that breed hunger,
And being quagmired by floods,
And being mixed in hysteria
Of dirty and ethnical politics!
When i'll sing my own song,
I know it'll be long overdue.
It may never be heard anywhere
It may remain deep rooted within my heart;
Or i may never have money
To pay for its acceptance by the people!
poem by Eric Lungai
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I Sing
I sing to vent the pain that is sometimes in me
Other times I sing of happiness, jubilation and glee
Sometimes I sing in celebration and can rock out all night long
I sing of love through every ballad and heart wrenching love song
Sometimes I sing a song that is trapped inside my head
I sing it all day long, sometimes until I go to bed
I sing of memories, songs that mark pages in my past
I sing on holidays, great carols that last and last and last
I sing when I am working, then time doesn’t seem so long
I sing when I am lonely, there’s nothing like the comfort of a song
To me, to sing with all my voice is simply a blast
I hope to sing everyday of my life until I breathe my last
poem by Rhonda Baker
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The Yellow Ribbon On The Old Oak Tree
who can forget the yellow ribbon
on that old oak tree? tell me.
tomorrow, i shall wear my yellow cap
my yellow shirt, my yellow brief,
my yellow pants.
my jaundiced eye, my golden yellow ring.
tomorrow, in my country, the sky is yellow.
all steps lead to the yellow brick road.
all fruits are ripe and mellow and yellow.
Tomorrow, the country is yellow.
Yellow for integrity, Yellow for change.
Yellow for justice. Yellow for truth.
One day more, and the sun shall rise
Yellow as ever.Yellow forever.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sing Me to Sleep…
After a long, long day,
All I want to hear is your voice,
Your soothing, calming voice,
Sing me to sleep,
My bird,
Sing me to sleep,
Let me bask in your music’s light,
For after a long, long day
Sleep still won’t come,
All I want to hear is your sweet bird song,
You song of love and sorrow,
Written just for me,
Sing me to sleep…
poem by Sage M. Gold
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The Green Thicket
All in a green thicket I heard a bird sing,
And blithe though his song was it made the tears spring,
To hear a bird sing as he swung on his spray,
All in a green thicket at break of the day.
All in a green thicket his song it did pour
That told of the Springs that shall come nevermore,
That sang of sweet blossoms, now faded and dry,
All in a green thicket in Aprils gone by.
All in a green thicket that morning in Spring,
I smelt the sharp scent of each young growing thing,
I smelt the sweet herbage all drowned with the dew,
And the time that's gone from me was with me anew.
All in a green thicket at break of the day
It was like the dear voice of a friend far away,
It was like the kind touch of a hand that I know,
And the smile and the tears of dead Aprils ago,
All in a green thicket one morning in Spring,
For to smell the young woodland and hear the bird sing,
Oh, long did I loiter and dream by the way,
All in a green thicket at break of the day.
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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A Song Of Singing
Sing! gangling lad, along the brink
Of wild brook-ways of shoal and deep,
Where killdees dip, and cattle drink,
And glinting little minnows leap!
Sing! slimpsy lass who trips above
And sets the foot-log quivering!
Sing! bittern, bumble-bee, and dove--
Sing! Sing! Sing!
Sing as you will, O singers all
Who sing because you _want_ to sing!
Sing! peacock on the orchard wall,
Or tree-toad by the trickling spring!
Sing! every bird on every bough--
Sing! every living, loving thing--
Sing any song, and anyhow,
But Sing! Sing! Sing!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Another Song to Sing (Second Draft)
When the night is long and dark and cold
And there's nobody around for you to hold,
Don't forget, whatever night may bring,
Tomorrow is another song to sing.
When the night is cold and there's nobody to hold,
When there's darkness all around you and within;
Remember there's a light at the end of every night,
And every day's another song to sing.
So try to carry on and make it through till dawn,
And listen for another song to sing.
When the clouds hang heavy and so grey
That you can't bear to face another day,
Just remember that, in spite of everything,
Every day's another song to sing.
When everything seems grey and you can't face the day,
When you just wish the world would go away;
Remember there's a spring, once winter's had its fling,
And every day's another song to sing.
When winter turns to spring, those sunny days will bring
Another brand new song for you to sing.
When your heart's been beaten black and blue
And it seems your dreams are never coming true,
Try and find something to keep believin' in,
And listen for another song to sing.
When your heart is bruised and there's nothing left to lose,
And life seems like a game you'll never win;
Remember there's a friend waiting just around the bend
With another song for you to sing.
Remember you've a friend with a song that's newly penned
Especially for you and me to sing.
The Voice
One feather is a bird,
I claim; one tree, a wood;
In her low voice I heard
More than a mortal should;
And so I stood apart,
Hidden in my own heart.
And yet I roamed out where
Those notes went, like the bird,
Whose thin song hung in air,
Diminished, yet still heard:
I lived with open sound,
Aloft, and on the ground.
That ghost was my own choice,
The shy cerulean bird;
It sang with her true voice,
And it was I who heard
A slight voice reply;
I heard; and only I.
Desire exults the ear:
Bird, girl, and ghostly tree,
The earth, the solid air--
Their slow song sang in me;
The long noon pulsed away,
Like any summer day.
poem by Theodore Roethke
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My Song (The Religion)
I Sing the song allong may saddness,
that even in rage it leaves me with age,
a song i sing towards the price,
a song i sing in time with some,
when i atter the lyrics of pain,
i fantise every minute of gain,
that when i atter the lyrics of relief,
i preconceive happiness with much belief,
I sing the song allong many saddness,
disparity not allowed the room in heart,
prosperity in grant because it might,
though spontaneously i hear a lot from it,
conspecously the ears get to eat,
dispored nor dipossessed i shall sing aloud,
i sing the song along many sadness,
Yes! i sing it in darkness,
but a song i own in light,
scattered in the systems of blood,
natured in the lives of bound,
it is a sound that not even water availed,
i live not but perish without it,
i sing the song along many saddness,
they call it religion
but it is a huge region,
distilled of its comprehension to the life i live,
disliked for its end, to the world i would live,
with its pace,
i am guaranteed a place,
were i am bound to live in bounty
poem by Anele ''The African Son'' kaPotelwa
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