En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Porlock

Porlock! thy verdant vale so fair to sight,
Thy lofty hills which fern and furze imbrown,
The waters that roll musically down
Thy woody glens, the traveller with delight
Recalls to memory, and the channel grey
Circling its surges in thy level bay.
Porlock! I shall forget thee not,
Here by the unwelcome summer rain confined;
But often shall hereafter call to mind
How here, a patient prisoner, 'twas my lot
To wear the lonely, lingering close of day,
Making my sonnet by the alehouse fire,
Whilst Idleness and Solitude inspire
Dull rhymes to pass the duller hours away.

poem by Robert Southey
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Thoughts About The Person From Porlock

Coleridge received the Person from Porlock
And ever after called him a curse,
Then why did he hurry to let him in?
He could have hid in the house.

It was not right of Coleridge in fact it was wrong
(But often we all do wrong)
As the truth is I think he was already stuck
With Kubla Khan.

He was weeping and wailing: I am finished, finished,
I shall never write another word of it,
When along comes the Person from Porlock
And takes the blame for it.

It was not right, it was wrong,
But often we all do wrong.

*

May we inquire the name of the Person from Porlock?
Why, Porson, didn’t you know?
He lived at the bottom of Porlock Hill
So had a long way to go,

He wasn’t much in the social sense
Though his grandmother was a Warlock,
One of the Rutlandshire ones I fancy
And nothing to do with Porlock,

And he lived at the bottom of the hill as I said
And had a cat named Flo,
And had a cat named Flo.

I long for the Person from Porlock
To bring my thoughts to an end,
I am becoming impatient to see him
I think of him as a friend,

Often I look out of the window
Often I run to the gate
I think, He will come this evening,
I think it is rather late.

I am hungry to be interrupted
For ever and ever amen
O Person from Porlock come quickly
And bring my thoughts to an end.

*

I felicitate the people who have a Person from Porlock
To break up everything and throw it away
Because then there will be nothing to keep them
And they need not stay.

*

Why do they grumble so much?
He comes like a benison
They should be glad he has not forgotten them
They might have had to go on.

*

These thoughts are depressing I know. They are depressing,
I wish I was more cheerful, it is more pleasant,
Also it is a duty, we should smile as well as submitting
To the purpose of One Above who is experimenting
With various mixtures of human character which goes best,
All is interesting for him it is exciting, but not for us.
There I go again. Smile, smile, and get some work to do
Then you will be practically unconscious without positively having to go.

poem by Stevie Smith
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A Song Of Exmoor

The Forest above and the Combe below,
On a bright September morn!
He's the soul of a clod who thanks not God
That ever his body was born!
So hurry along, the stag's afoot,
The Master's up and away!
Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through
From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

So hurry along, the stag's afoot,
The Master's up and away!
Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through
From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

Hark to the tufters' challenge true,
'Tis a note that the red-deer knows!
His courage awakes, his covert he breaks,
And up for the moor he goes!
He's all his rights and seven on top,
His eye's the eye of a king,
And he'll beggar the pride of some that ride
Before he leaves the ling!

Here comes Antony bringing the pack,
Steady! he's laying them on!
By the sound of their chime you may tell that it's time
To harden your heart and be gone.
Nightacott, Narracott, Hunnacott's passed,
Right for the North they race:
He's leading them straight for Blackmoor Gate,
And he's setting a pounding pace!

We're running him now on a breast-high scent,
But he leaves us standing still;
When we swing round by Westland Pound
He's far up Challacombe Hill.
The pack are a string of struggling ants,
The quarry's a dancing midge,
They're trying their reins on the edge of the Chains
While he's on Cheriton Ridge.

He's gone by Kittuck and Lucott Moor,
He's gone by Woodcock's Ley;
By the little white town he's turned him down,
And he's soiling in open sea.
So hurry along, we'll both be in,
The crowd are a parish away!
We're a field of two, and we've followed it through
From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

So hurry along, we'll both be in,
The crowd are a parish away!
We're a field of two, and we've followed it through
From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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A Summer Mood

BUT wait. Let each by each the days pass by,
One faded and one blown like summer flowers;
What need of hope, with summer in the sky?
What of regret, with all fair morrows ours?
If yesterday be gone,No reck, 'twas not alone,
To-morrow will have just so sweet long hours.
But yet to-day is sweetest till 'tis flown.

But wait. Let summer day be changed from day,
Like following surges of the ebb and flow;
And flow brings breath of saltness and blithe spray,
And ebb long music of seas plashing low.
The waves, stolen out of reach
,Have no farewell for speech;
Next tide will roll as swift, as rippling go.
And yet 'tis now that's best along the beach.

Ah wait. The while we linger our lives live,
Our summer ripens purpose through our dreams;
Flower-petals fallen leave a seed to thrive,
Spent tides heap treasures from the deep sea streams;
Now drifts by unaware,
And Afterwards is heir;
To-morrow wins the wealth of yester gleams.
Yet 'tis to-day that summer makes most fair.

poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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The Prisoner

THERE, where the swift Rhone's waters flow
Its verdant banks between;
Where fragrant myrtles bending grow,
And Rhone reflects their green;
There, where the vineyards deck the hills,
And o'er the valleys spread,
Which golden citrons' fragrance fills,
And plantains rear their head—

There stood, as sunk the lord of day,
Upon the smiling shore,
One who long watch'd the waters play,
And thought his sorrows o'er;
A Russian hero— stolen by war,
The honour of the Don;
Divided from his friends afar,
He wander'd there alone.

'O roll!' he sang, 'ye waters roll—
Flow in your glory on;
Your waves shall waken on my soul
The memory of the Don.
My days pass by without an aim,
Amidst life's busy roar;
For what is life without its fame,
Or the bright world?— 'tis poor.

'Now nature wears its spring-tide dress,
The sun shines splendidly;
All liberty and loveliness—
O! why am I not free?
O roll, ye waters! rage, thou Rhone!
And waken, as ye roll,
The thoughts of my domestic zone
Within my troubled soul.

'The maidens here are fair and bright,
Their glance is full of fire;
And their all-graceful smiles of light
Might satisfy desire
'But what is love in foreign lands,
Or joy?— I only know
The joy and love that bless our sands,
Midst forests and midst snow.

'Give me my freedom— let me tread
Once more my country's strand;
With frost and storm all overspread—
My home— my father-land!
Deep is the snow around my door;
But give me my own steed,
And day and night, the mountains o'er,
Me to my home he'll lead.

'At home, there's one who sits and keeps
The memory of her love;
And often to the window creeps,
And pours her prayers above.
She guards the thoughts of him whose mind
Guards every thought of her;
She pats the horse I left behind—
How privileged to be there!

'O roll, thou Rhone! ye waters roll—
Rush in your glory on;
Your waves still waken in my soul
The memory of the Don.
Come, winds! come hither from the north,
Come, in your freshness, come:
And thou bright pole-star blazen forth,
Memento of my home!'

So spake the prisoner, as he turn'd
To Lyons his tired eye,
When long in exile's chains he mourn'd
His hapless destiny.
He sang— the Rhone roll'd proudly on,
The moon oft kiss'd its tide;
And oft on Lyons' turrets shone
The sun in all his pride.

poem by Konstantin Nikolaevich Batiushkov
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The Girl Of Otaheite

Forget? Can I forget the scented breath
Of breezes, sighing of thee, in mine ear;
The strange awaking from a dream of death,
The sudden thrill to find thee coming near?
Our huts were desolate, and far away
I heard thee calling me throughout the day,
No one had seen thee pass,
Trembling I came. Alas!
Can I forget?

Once I was beautiful; my maiden charms
Died with the grief that from my bosom fell.
Ah! weary traveller! rest in my loving arms!
Let there be no regrets and no farewell!
Here of thy mother sweet, where waters flow,
Here of thy fatherland we whispered low;
Here, music, praise, and prayer
Filled the glad summer air.
Can I forget?

Forget? My dear old home must I forget?
And wander forth and hear my people weep,
Far from the woods where, when the sun has set,
Fearless but weary to thy arms I creep;
Far from lush flow'rets and the palm-tree's moan
I could not live. Here let me rest alone!
Go! I must follow nigh,
With thee I'm doomed to die,
Never forget!

poem by Victor Hugo
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Sonnet # 59 To Dream Upon

Thou art like a pretty flower amongst the weeds
A rare orchid to adore
One sight of thee be'stills my heart
Truly a poet's essense of amour
I am held prisoner by thy beauty
Shackled by the wonderous enchantment of thy eyes
Oft have I gazed in quiet contemplation
Whilst my heart doth beat passionately for thee inside
Thou art a song thou art a sonnet
Endless words thy beauty brings to mind
A river of poetic inspiration created
From an image of an angel I would simply call devine
O'Dark of night ye olde faithful friend
Let visions of her in my sleep descend

poem by John A. Hancock
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The Three Strangers

Far are those tranquil hills,
Dyed with fair evening's rose;
On urgent, secret errand bent,
A traveller goes.

Approach him strangers three,
Barefooted, cowled; their eyes
Scan the lone, hastening solitary
With dumb surmise.

One instant in close speech
With them he doth confer:
God-sped, he hasteneth on,
That anxious traveller….

I was that man — in a dream:
And each world's night in vain
I patient wait on sleep to unveil
Those vivid hills again.

Would that they three could know
How yet burns on in me
Love — from one lost in Paradise —
For their grave courtesy.

poem by Walter de la Mare
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Across The Void

In this darkness of solitude-
My heart weeps a sorrowful song-
Into the night-
To the lonely moon,
In a starless,
Black sky-
As in the Winter wind,
I hear your voice gently whisper to me,
Of our love...
And the very thought of thee,
My love;
Warms my soul...
And dreary,
Lonely hours pass-
Like a single,
Sluggish grain of sand in an hourglass-
As if the bottom must be full,
Like a Saharan sand-dune-
'Fore I can embrace thee again...
As I long for thee,
My love-
And I ache for thee,
My love-
From across this void of solitude..
Its as if night transcends day,
Till I can unite with thee again-
Only then shall the sunshine return-
To quell this lonely,
Perpetual night;
My love...

poem by Philip Alarie
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Cadmus and Harmonia

Far, far from here,
The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay
Among the green Illyrian hills; and there
The sunshine in the happy glens is fair,
And by the sea, and in the brakes.
The grass is cool, the sea-side air
Buoyant and fresh, the mountain flowers
More virginal and sweet than ours.

And there, they say, two bright and aged snakes,
Who once were Cadmus and Harmonia,
Bask in the glens or on the warm sea-shore,
In breathless quiet, after all their ills;
Nor do they see their country, nor the place
Where the Sphinx lived among the frowning hills,
Nor the unhappy palace of their race,
Nor Thebes, nor the Ismenus, any more.

There those two live, far in the Illyrian brakes!
They had stay'd long enough to see,
In Thebes, the billow of calamity
Over their own dear children roll'd,
Curse upon curse, pang upon pang,
For years, they sitting helpless in their home,
A grey old man and woman; yet of old
The Gods had to their marriage come,
And at the banquet all the Muses sang.

Therefore they did not end their days
In sight of blood, but were rapt, far away,
To where the west-wind plays,
And murmurs of the Adriatic come
To those untrodden mountain-lawns; and there
Placed safely in changed forms, the pair
Wholly forgot their first sad life, and home,
And all that Theban woe, and stray
For ever through the glens, placid and dumb.

poem by Matthew Arnold
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Oxford Revisited

I never hear the sound of thy glad bells,
Oxford, and chime harmonious, but I say,
Sighing to think how time has worn away,
Some spirit speaks in the sweet tone that swells,
Heard after years of absence, from the vale
Where Cherwell winds. Most true it speaks the tale
Of days departed, and its voice recalls
Hours of delight and hope in the gay tide
Of life, and many friends now scattered wide
By many fates. Peace be within thy walls!
I have scarce heart to visit thee; but yet,
Denied the joys sought in thy shades,--denied
Each better hope, since my poor Harriet died,
What I have owed to thee, my heart can ne'er forget!

poem by William Lisle Bowles
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Over The Hills And Far Away

A LITTLE bird flew my window by,
'Twixt the level street and the level sky,
The level rows of houses tall,
The long low sun on the level wall;
And all that the little bird did say
Was, 'Over the hills and far away.'

A little bird sang behind my chair,
From the level line of corn-fields fair,
The smooth green hedgerow's level bound
Not a furlong off--the horizon's bound,
And the level lawn where the sun all day
Burns:--'Over the hills and far away.'

A little bird sings above my bed,
And I know if I could but lift my head
I would see the sun set, round and grand,
Upon level sea and level sand,
While beyond the misty distance gray
Is 'Over the hills and far away.'

I think that a little bird will sing
Over a grassy mound, next spring,
Where something that once was me, ye'll leave
In the level sunshine, morn and eve:
But I shall be gone, past night, past day,
Over the hills and far away.

poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Sonnet # 50 William Shakespeare

Twas in merry olde England many a year ago
The bard weaved his sort'd tales
Of tragedy, revenge, love and comedy
Of each twas said he knew'th all to well
Oh how that quill must of scratched long into the night
Whilst he penn'd the words his heart held so dear
Surrounded by the glow of candle light, illuminating
A solitary figure t'which the world now so reveres
Romance dripped from every love fill'd sonnet
The two sexes to him was fair game
For he himself twas not prejudice against amour
For both he could love'th just the same
Sweet William in history did'st thou carve thy rightful place
When thee took thy pen in hand and enlighten'd the human race

poem by John A. Hancock
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Lonely As Hell

I am no man's burden
I can take care of myself
but it's lonely out in space
I've come to know the area well.
I salute shooting stars as they pass on by
a comet, a galaxy, but never a sigh,
lonely as hell out here, i say
lonely as hell
lonely as hell.

I put on a smiling face
and greet those who may pass by
but it's a different story if they could see
behind these emerald eyes
straight into this heart of mine
searching for love, running out of time,
it's lonely as hell in here, I say,
lonely as hell
lonely as hell.

Down memory lane I walk sometimes
out in the pouring rain
just to relive moments gone by
that will never sparkle with life again.
I's lonely as hell on memory lane
lonely as hell
lonely as hell.

poem by Beyond Repair
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Margaret Love Peacock

Long night succeeds thy little day;
Oh blighted blossom! can it be,
That this grey stone, and grassy clay,
Have clos'd our anxious care of thee?

The half-form'd speech of artless thought
That spoke a mind beyond thy years;
The song, the dance, by nature taught;
The sunny smiles, the transient tears;

The symmetry of face and form,
The eye with light and life replete;
The little heart so fondly warm,
The voice so musically sweet;

These, lost to hope, in memory yet
Around the hearts that lov'd thee cling,
Shadowing, with long and vain regret,
The too fair promise of thy spring.

poem by Thomas Love Peacock
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Love And Death

(WB Yeats)
Behold the flashing waters
A cloven dancing jet,
That from the milk-white marble
For ever foam and fret;
Far off in drowsy valleys
Where the meadow saffrons blow,
The feet of summer dabble
In their coiling calm and slow.
The banks are worn forever
By a people sadly gay:
A Titan with loud laughter,
Made them of fire clay.
Go ask the springing flowers,
And the flowing air above,
What are the twin-born waters,
And they'll answer Death and Love.
With wreaths of withered flowers
Two lonely spirits wait
With wreaths of withered flowers
'Fore paradise's gate.
They may not pass the portal
Poor earth-enkindled pair,
Though sad is many a spirit
To pass and leave them there
Still staring at their flowers,
That dull and faded are.
If one should rise beside thee,
The other is not far.
Go ask the youngest angel,
She will say with bated breath,
By the door of Mary's garden
Are the spirits Love and Death.

song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love And Death

(WB Yeats)
Behold the flashing waters
A cloven dancing jet,
That from the milk-white marble
For ever foam and fret;
Far off in drowsy valleys
Where the meadow saffrons blow,
The feet of summer dabble
In their coiling calm and slow.
The banks are worn forever
By a people sadly gay:
A Titan with loud laughter,
Made them of fire clay.
Go ask the springing flowers,
And the flowing air above,
What are the twin-born waters,
And they'll answer Death and Love.
With wreaths of withered flowers
Two lonely spirits wait
With wreaths of withered flowers
'Fore paradise's gate.
They may not pass the portal
Poor earth-enkindled pair,
Though sad is many a spirit
To pass and leave them there
Still staring at their flowers,
That dull and faded are.
If one should rise beside thee,
The other is not far.
Go ask the youngest angel,
She will say with bated breath,
By the door of Mary's garden
Are the spirits Love and Death.

song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love & Death

(wb yeats)
Behold the flashing waters
A cloven dancing jet,
That from the milk-white marble
For ever foam and fret;
Far off in drowsy valleys
Where the meadow saffrons blow,
The feet of summer dabble
In their coiling calm and slow.
The banks are worn forever
By a people sadly gay:
A titan with loud laughter,
Made them of fire clay.
Go ask the springing flowers,
And the flowing air above,
What are the twin-born waters,
And theyll answer death and love.
With wreaths of withered flowers
Two lonely spirits wait
With wreaths of withered flowers
fore paradises gate.
They may not pass the portal
Poor earth-enkindled pair,
Though sad is many a spirit
To pass and leave them there
Still staring at their flowers,
That dull and faded are.
If one should rise beside thee,
The other is not far.
Go ask the youngest angel,
She will say with bated breath,
By the door of marys garden
Are the spirits love and death.

song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shall Earth No More Inspire Thee

Shall Earth no more inspire thee,
Thou lonely dreamer now ?
Since passion may not fire thee
Shall nature cease to bow ?

Thy mind is ever moving
In regions dark to thee;
Recall its useless roving -
Come back and dwell with me -

I know my mountain breezes
Enchant annd soothe thee still -
I know my sunshine pleases
Despite thy wayward will -

When day with evening blending
Sinks from the summer sky,
I've seen thy spirit bending
In fond idolotry -

I've watched thee every hour -
I know my mighty sway -
I know my magic power
To drive thy griefs away -

Few hearts to mortal given
On earth so wildly pine
Yet none would ask a Heaven
More like this Earth than thine -

Then let my winds caress thee -
Thy comrade let me be -
Since nought beside can bless thee
Return and dwell with me -

poem by Emily Jane Brontë
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Where Home Was

'TWAS yesterday; 'twas long ago:
And for this flaunting grimy street,
And for this crowding to and fro,
And thud and roar of wheels and feet,
Were elm-trees and the linnet's trill,
The little gurgles of the rill,
And breath of meadow-flowers that blow
Ere roses make the summer sweet.

'Twas long ago; 'twas yesterday:
Our peach would just be new with leaves,
The swallow pair that used to lay
Their glimmering eggs beneath our eaves
Would flutter busy with their brood,
And, haply, in our hazel-wood,
Small village urchins hide at play,
And girls sit binding blue-bell sheaves.

Was the house here, or there, or there?
No landmark tells. All changed; all lost;
As when the waves that fret and tear
The fore-shores of some level coast
Roll smoothly where the sea-pinks grew.
All changed, and all grown old anew;
And I pass over, unaware,
The memories I am seeking most.

But where these huddled house-rows spread,
And where this thickened air hangs murk
And the dim sun peers round and red
On stir and haste and cares and work,
For me were baby's daisy-chains
,For me the meetings in the lanes,
The shy good-morrows softly said
That paid my morning's lying lurk.

Oh lingering days of long ago,
Not until now you passed away.
Years wane between and we unknow;
Our youth is always yesterday
.But, like a traveller home who craves
For friends and finds forgotten graves,
I seek you where you dwelt, and, lo,
Even farewells not left to say.

poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Prisoner

Time has come to say goodbye
To the broken memories
Theyre locked inside like prisoners
In a place that no-one sees
Stayed up late with a friend of mine
Southern comfort till dawn
We talked about the pains of love
Shouldve known from
The start you were wrong
Im just a prisoner
Dont wanna lock myself away
Prisoner - I get so lonely, lonely
Im a prisoner
Just when do you think love will stay
It walks right out on you - out on you
Tired blood runs through my veins
But I cant get no sleep
You lock my heart
In these prison walls
This place Ive got to leave
Im a prisoner
Dont wanna lock myself away
Prisoner - I get so lonely, lonely
Im a prisoner
Just when do you think love will stay
It walks right out on you - out on you
The sky is grey, its raining
Like the storm in my heart
There aint no use explaining
cause Im leaving, leaving
Wont somebody set me free
Take me away from this misery
I get so lonely
I get so lonely, lonely, lonely
Wont somebody set me free
Please, please, set me free

song performed by by Uriah Heep
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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