At Dawn
THE night-long clamour of winds grew still;
The forest rested, its foes withdrawn;
On sounding ocean and silent hill
There crept a sense of the coming dawn.
A bird awoke on a leaning limb
And fluttered its plumes a moment's space;
Dark purple lay on the sea's far rim:
The sky grew pale as a dying face.
Then all the trees and the rocks and heights
With wondering faces watched the East:
It seemed an altar hung with lights
And waiting for a vestured priest.
And in that intimate first hour
When land and sea rejoiced as one,
And Nature, like an opening flower,
Gave incense, came the burning sun.
Yet, while the hour of gold went by,
I saw through all its pageantry
The vast indifference of the sky,
The heartless beauty of the sea.
For wet and wan, and cold and sped
Beyond the breakers' reach of pearl,
There lay a strong man drowned and dead,
And in his arms a drowned white girl.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Related quotes
The Voice
Safe in the magic of my woods
I lay, and watched the dying light.
Faint in the pale high solitudes,
And washed with rain and veiled by night,
Silver and blue and green were showing.
And the dark woods grew darker still;
And birds were hushed; and peace was growing;
And quietness crept up the hill;
And no wind was blowing
And I knew
That this was the hour of knowing,
And the night and the woods and you
Were one together, and I should find
Soon in the silence the hidden key
Of all that had hurt and puzzled me -
Why you were you, and the night was kind,
And the woods were part of the heart of me.
And there I waited breathlessly,
Alone; and slowly the holy three,
The three that I loved, together grew
One, in the hour of knowing,
Night, and the woods, and you -
And suddenly
There was an uproar in my woods,
The noise of a fool in mock distress,
Crashing and laughing and blindly going,
Of ignorant feet and a swishing dress,
And a Voice profaning the solitudes.
The spell was broken, the key denied me
And at length your flat clear voice beside me
Mouthed cheerful clear flat platitudes.
You came and quacked beside me in the wood.
You said, 'The view from here is very good!'
You said, 'It's nice to be alone a bit!'
And, 'How the days are drawing out!' you said.
You said, 'The sunset's pretty, isn't it?'
* * * * *
By God! I wish - I wish that you were dead!
poem by Rupert Brooke (1909)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Voice, The
Safe in the magic of my woods
I lay, and watched the dying light.
Faint in the pale high solitudes,
And washed with rain and veiled by night,
Silver and blue and green were showing.
And the dark woods grew darker still;
And birds were hushed; and peace was growing;
And quietness crept up the hill;
And no wind was blowing
And I knew
That this was the hour of knowing,
And the night and the woods and you
Were one together, and I should find
Soon in the silence the hidden key
Of all that had hurt and puzzled me --
Why you were you, and the night was kind,
And the woods were part of the heart of me.
And there I waited breathlessly,
Alone; and slowly the holy three,
The three that I loved, together grew
One, in the hour of knowing,
Night, and the woods, and you ----
And suddenly
There was an uproar in my woods,
The noise of a fool in mock distress,
Crashing and laughing and blindly going,
Of ignorant feet and a swishing dress,
And a Voice profaning the solitudes.
The spell was broken, the key denied me
And at length your flat clear voice beside me
Mouthed cheerful clear flat platitudes.
You came and quacked beside me in the wood.
You said, "The view from here is very good!"
You said, "It's nice to be alone a bit!"
And, "How the days are drawing out!" you said.
You said, "The sunset's pretty, isn't it?"
* * * * *
By God! I wish -- I wish that you were dead!
poem by Rupert Brooke
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The Cold Winds Of January
Last night in my dreams i did hear the winds roar
Above the old high fields of far Claramore
A cold Winter moon crept behind clouds to hide
And on the bleak hillside the hungry fox cried
And a bird so distinctive even in his wild cry
The screech of the barn owl echoed in the sky
A Winter's night in January by old Clara hill
The howling of the wind drowned out the babble of the rill
That towards the big river downland ever does flow
Through many a field and by many a hedgerow
Old jack frost of January is in the cold air
And the hedgerows and deciduous trees of their foliage are bare
And the cold winds of January in the dead of night roar
Above the old bare fields of high Claramore.
poem by Francis Duggan
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But a short time to live
Our little hour,—how swift it flies
When poppies flare and lilies smile;
How soon the fleeting minute dies,
Leaving us but a little while
To dream our dream, to sing our song,
To pick the fruit, to pluck the flower,
The Gods—They do not give us long,—
One little hour.
Our little hour,—how short it is
When Love with dew-eyed loveliness
Raises her lips for ours to kiss
And dies within our first caress.
Youth flickers out like wind-blown flame,
Sweets of to-day to-morrow sour,
For Time and Death, relentless, claim
Our little hour.
Our little hour,—how short a time
To wage our wars, to fan our hates,
To take our fill of armoured crime,
To troop our banners, storm the gates.
Blood on the sword, our eyes blood-red,
Blind in our puny reign of power,
Do we forget how soon is sped
Our little hour?
Our little hour,—how soon it dies:
How short a time to tell our beads,
To chant our feeble Litanies,
To think sweet thoughts, to do good deeds.
The altar lights grow pale and dim,
The bells hang silent in the tower—
So passes with the dying hymn
Our little hour.
poem by Leslie Coulson
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Unicorns and Myth
Many moons ago, England had its myths,
Stories of fairies, leprechauns and unicorns,
Who lived in a mythological land,
Where mystery and magic still stand,
For the forest were dark and dangerous places,
The unsuspecting walking through their depths,
Knowing the magical creatures watching over their steps,
Protecting them from the devil that hides in the dark,
Shadows waiting in the tall trees,
But nature has always had its power in magic,
White witches harnessing nature's secret power,
The plants and trees that surround and fill the forest,
Magic and myth to be found in the dark green leaves,
For the forest contains many secrets,
Many secrets where unicorns run at the witching hour,
Or the moon sharing her secret power,
And there are many beautiful flowers,
Blooming, even in the dark,
The fairies sprinkling their magic dust,
To make mushrooms and petals grow,
The forest rich with its vast, magical beauty,
That has captured the imagination of all who see.
poem by Paula Glynn
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Peace In A Palace
'You were weeping in the night,' said the Emperor,
'Weeping in your sleep, I am told.'
'It was nothing but a dream,' said the Empress;
But her face grew gray and old.
'You thought you saw our German God defeated?'
'Oh, no!' she said. 'I saw no lightnings fall.
I dreamed of a whirlpool of green water,
Where something had gone down. That was all.
_'All but the whimper of the sea gulls flying,
Endlessly round and round,
Waiting for the faces, the faces from the darkness,
The dreadful rising faces of the drowned._
'It was nothing but a dream,' said the Empress.
'I thought I was walking on the sea;
And the foam rushed up in a wild smother,
And a crowd of little faces looked at me.
They were drowning! They were drowning,' said the Empress,
'And they stretched their feeble arms to the sky;
But the worst was--they mistook me for their mother,
And cried as my children used to cry.
_'Nothing but a whimper of the sea-gulls flying,
Endlessly round and round,
With the cruel yellow beaks that were waiting for the faces,
The little floating faces of the drowned.'_
'It was nothing but a dream,' said the Emperor,
'So why should you weep, dear, eh?'--
'Oh, I saw the red letters on a life belt
That the green sea washed my way!'--
'What were they?' said the Emperor. 'What were they?'--
'Some of them were hidden,' said the Empress,
'But I plainly saw the L and the U!'
'In God's name, stop!' said the Emperor.
'You told me that it was not true!
_'Told me that you dreamed of the sea gulls flying,
Endlessly round and round,
Waiting for the faces, and the eyes in the faces,
The eyes of the children that we drowned._
'Kiss me and forget it,' said the Emperor,
'Dry your tears on the tassel of my sword.
I am going to offer peace to my people,
And abdicate, perhaps, as overlord.
I shall now take up My Cross as Count of Prussia--
Which is not a heavy burden, you'll agree.
Why, before the twenty million dead are rotten
There'll be yachting days again for you and me.
Cheer up!
It would mean a rope for anyone but Me.'
_'Oh, take care!' said the Empress. 'They are flying,
Endlessly round and round.
They have finished with the faces, the dreadful little faces,
The little eyeless faces of the drowned.'_
poem by Alfred Noyes
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By the Babe Unborn
If trees were tall and grasses short,
As in some crazy tale,
If here and there a sea were blue
Beyond the breaking pale,
If a fixed fire hung in the air
To warm me one day through,
If deep green hair grew on great hills,
I know what I should do.
In dark I lie; dreaming that there
Are great eyes cold or kind,
And twisted streets and silent doors,
And living men behind.
Let storm clouds come: better an hour,
And leave to weep and fight,
Than all the ages I have ruled
The empires of the night.
I think that if they gave me leave
Within the world to stand,
I would be good through all the day
I spent in fairyland.
They should not hear a word from me
Of selfishness or scorn,
If only I could find the door,
If only I were born.
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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By the Babe Unborn
If trees were tall and grasses short,
As in some crazy tale,
If here and there a sea were blue
Beyond the breaking pale,
If a fixed fire hung in the air
To warm me one day through,
If deep green hair grew on great hills,
I know what I should do.
In dark I lie: dreaming that there
Are great eyes cold or kind,
And twisted streets and silent doors,
And living men behind.
Let storm-clouds come: better an hour,
And leave to weep and fight,
Than all the ages I have ruled
The empires of the night.
I think that if they gave me leave
Within that world to stand,
I would be good through all the day
I spent in fairyland.
They should not hear a word from me
Of selfishness or scorn,
If only I could find the door,
If only I were born.
poem by G.K. Chesterton from The Wild Knight and Other Poems (1900)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Pilot of the Plains
``False,' they said, ``thy Pale-face lover, from the land of waking morn ;
Rise and wed thy Redskin wooer, nobler warrior ne'er was born ;
Cease thy watching, cease thy dreaming,
Show the white thine Indian scorn.'
Thus they taunted her, declaring, ``He remembers naught of thee :
Likely some white maid he wooeth, far beyond the inland sea.'
But she answered ever kindly,
``He will come again to me,'
Till the dusk of Indian summer crept athwart the western skies ;
But a deeper dusk was burning in her dark and dreaming eyes,
As she scanned the rolling prairie,
Where the foothills fall, and rise.
Till the autumn came and vanished, till the season of the rains,
Till the western world lay fettered in midwinter's crystal chains,
Still she listened for his coming,
Still she watched the distant plains.
Then a night with nor'land tempest, nor'land snows a-swirling fast,
Out upon the pathless prairie came the Pale-face through the blast,
Calling, calling, ``Yakonwita,
I am coming, love, at last.'
Hovered night above, about him, dark its wings and cold and dread ;
Never unto trail or tepee were his straying footsteps led ;
Till benumbed, he sank, and pillowed
On the drifting snows his head,
Saying, ``O! my Yakonwita call me, call me, be my guide
To the lodge beyond the prairie-for I vowed ere winter died
I would come again, belovèd ;
I would claim my Indian bride.'
``Yakonwita, Yakonwita! ' Oh, the dreariness that strains
Through the voice that calling, quivers, till a whisper but remains,
``Yakonwita, Yakonwita,
I am lost upon the plains.'
But the Silent Spirit hushed him, lulled him as he cried anew,
``Save me, save me! O! beloved, I am Pale but I am true.
Yakonwita, Yakonwita
I am dying, love, for you.'
Leagues afar, across the prairie, she had risen from her bed,
Roused her kinsmen from their slumber : ``He has come to-night,' she said.
``I can hear him calling, calling ;
But his voice is as the dead.
``Listen! ' and they sate all silent, while the tempest louder grew,
And a spirit-voice called faintly, ``I am dying, love, for you.'
Then they wailed, ``O! Yakonwita.
He was Pale, but he was true.'
Wrapped she then her ermine round her, stepped without the tepee door,
Saying, ``I must follow, follow, though he call for evermore,
Yakonwita, Yakonwita ; '
And they never saw her more.
Late at night, say Indian hunters, when the starlight clouds or wanes,
Far away they see a maiden, misty as the autumn rains,
Guiding with her lamp of moonlight
Hunters lost upon the plains.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Boys In The Trees
(carly simon)
Im home again in my old narrow bed
Where I grew tall and my feet hung over the end
The low beam room with the window looking out
On the soft summer garden
Where the boys grew in the trees
Here I grew guilty
And no one was at fault
Frightened by the power in every innocent thought
And the silent understanding passing down
>from daughter to daughter
Let the boys grow in the trees
Do you go to them or do you let them come to you
Do you stand in back afraid that youll intrude
Deny yourself and hope someone will see
And live like a flower
While the boys grew in the trees
Last night I slept in sheets the colour of fire
Tonight I lie alone again and curse my own desires
Sentenced first to burn and then to freeze
And watch by the window
Where the boys grew in the trees
song performed by by Carly Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hour Of Gold
(Emmylou Harris)
I have seen your soul turn black
And then retreat
To that dark place where no one else may follow
I waited here for your returning
To roll your cigarette
And wash your bloodied feet
You have heard the silent running
Of my dreams
Broke me from the grip of grief and fever
With the sound of your voice speaking my name
And a kiss
That I will feel forever
In the hour of gold, the hour of lead
WG did forge our wedding bed
On a hard and holy road
We lay down our head
In tha hour of gold, the hour oi lead
I have watched you riding on
The wall of death
And when il finally breaks you and you fall
I will tear this dress of muslin that you gave me
To bind the fatal wound
And catch your last sweet breath
In the hour of gold, the hour of lead
We did forge our wedding bed
On a hard and holy road
We lay down our head
In the hour of gold, the hour of lead
But the world will be my witness when
They excavate my heart
And find the image of your face
Imprinted there like some Shroud of Turin
That neither time Nor tundra could erase
In the hour of gold, the hour of lead
We did forge our wedding bed
On a hard and holy road
We lay down our head
In the hour of gold, the hour of lead
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When The Blue Hour Comes
Orbison/ crowell
The good times are all gone
The night keeps coming on so strong
You cant hold on, no matter what you do
Will there be someone who cares for you
When the blue hour comes?
When the blue hour comes?
And when your restless heart
Tears your world apart
And everywhere you turn
Its falling down on you
Will there be a light that shines for you?
When the blue hour comes for you
If theres anything that you would have me do
Just call on me and Ill be coming through
I will always be there for you
When the blue hour comes
When the blue hour comes
Good times dont last forever
Sometimes its now or never
Darling, reach out for me
You know where Ill be
I will always be there for you
When the blue hour comes
When the blue hour comes
When the blue hour comes for you
If theres anything that you would have me do
Just call on me and Ill be coming through
I will always be there for you
When the blue hour comes
When the blue hour comes
I will always be there
When the blue hour comes
When the blue hour comes
When the blue hour comes....(repeat to fade)
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Estrangement
DO you remember how, one autumn night,
We sat upon the rocks and watched the sea
In dreamlike silence, while the moonlight fell
On you and me?
How, as we lingered musing, side by side,
5
A cold, white mist crept down and hid the sea
And dimmed the moon, and how the air grew chill
Round you and me?
The mist and chill of that drear autumn night,
When we sat silent looking on the sea,
10
I often think has never passed away
From you and me.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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The Cattle-Dog's Death
The Plains lay bare on the homeward route,
And the march was heavy on man and brute;
For the Spirit of Drought was on all the land,
And the white heat danced on the glowing sand.
The best of our cattle-dogs lagged at last,
His strength gave out ere the plains were passed,
And our hearts grew sad when he crept and laid
His languid limbs in the nearest shade.
He saved our lives in the years gone by,
When no one dreamed of the danger nigh,
And the treacherous blacks in the darkness crept
On the silent camp where the drovers slept.
‘The dog is dying,’ a stockman said,
As he knelt and lifted the shaggy head;
‘’Tis a long day’s march ere the run be near,
‘And he’s dying fast; shall we leave him here?’
But the super cried, ‘There’s an answer there!’
As he raised a tuft of the dog’s grey hair;
And, strangely vivid, each man descried
The old spear-mark on the shaggy hide.
We laid a ‘bluey’ and coat across
The camping pack of the lightest horse,
And raised the dog to his deathbed high,
And brought him far ’neath the burning sky.
At the kindly touch of the stockmen rude
His eyes grew human with gratitude;
And though we parched in the heat that fags,
We gave him the last of the water-bags.
The super’s daughter we knew would chide
If we left the dog in the desert wide;
So we brought him far o’er the burning sand
For a parting stroke of her small white hand.
But long ere the station was seen ahead,
His pain was o’er, for the dog was dead
And the folks all knew by our looks of gloom
’Twas a comrade’s corpse that we carried home.
poem by Henry Lawson
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August Moonrise
The sun was gone, and the moon was coming
Over the blue Connecticut hills;
The west was rosy, the east was flushed,
And over my head the swallows rushed
This way and that, with changeful wills.
I heard them twitter and watched them dart
Now together and now apart
Like dark petals blown from a tree;
The maples stamped against the west
Were black and stately and full of rest,
And the hazy orange moon grew up
And slowly changed to yellow gold
While the hills were darkened, fold on fold
To a deeper blue than a flower could hold.
Down the hill I went, and then
I forgot the ways of men,
For night-scents, heady, and damp and cool
Wakened ecstasy in me
On the brink of a shining pool.
O Beauty, out of many a cup
You have made me drunk and wild
Ever since I was a child,
But when have I been sure as now
That no bitterness can bend
And no sorrow wholly bow
One who loves you to the end?
And though I must give my breath
And my laughter all to death,
And my eyes through which joy came,
And my heart, a wavering flame;
If all must leave me and go back
Along a blind and fearful track
So that you can make anew,
Fusing with intenser fire,
Something nearer your desire;
If my soul must go alone
Through a cold infinity,
Or even if it vanish, too,
Beauty, I have worshipped you.
Let this single hour atone
For the theft of all of me.
poem by Sara Teasdale
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To Jane: The Recollection
I.
Now the last day of many days,
All beautiful and bright as thou,
The loveliest and the last, is dead,
Rise, Memory, and write its praise!
Up,--to thy wonted work! come, trace
The epitaph of glory fled,--
For now the Earth has changed its face,
A frown is on the Heaven’s brow.
II.
We wandered to the Pine Forest
That skirts the Ocean’s foam,
The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.
The whispering waves were half asleep,
The clouds were gone to play,
And on the bosom of the deep
The smile of Heaven lay;
It seemed as if the hour were one
Sent from beyond the skies,
Which scattered from above the sun
A light of Paradise.
III.
We paused amid the pines that stood
The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
As serpents interlaced;
And, soothed by every azure breath,
That under Heaven is blown,
To harmonies and hues beneath,
As tender as its own,
Now all the tree-tops lay asleep,
Like green waves on the sea,
As still as in the silent deep
The ocean woods may be.
IV.
How calm it was!—the silence there
By such a chain was bound
That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller by her sound
The inviolable quietness;
The breath of peace we drew
With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew.
There seemed from the remotest seat
Of the white mountain waste,
To the soft flower beneath our feet,
A magic circle traced,--
A spirit interfused around
A thrilling, silent life,--
To momentary peace it bound
Our mortal nature’s strife;
And still I felt the centre of
The magic circle there
Was one fair form that filled with love
The lifeless atmosphere.
V.
We paused beside the pools that lie
Under the forest bough,--
Each seemed as ’twere a little sky
Gulfed in a world below;
A firmament of purple light
Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night,
And purer than the day--
In which the lovely forests grew,
As in the upper air,
More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any spreading there.
There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn,
And through the dark green wood
The white sun twinkling like the dawn
Out of a speckled cloud.
Sweet views which in our world above
Can never well be seen,
Were imaged by the water’s love
Of that fair forest green.
And all was interfused beneath
With an Elysian glow,
An atmosphere without a breath,
A softer day below.
Like one beloved the scene had lent
To the dark water’s breast,
Its every leaf and lineament
With more than truth expressed;
Until an envious wind crept by,
Like an unwelcome thought,
Which from the mind’s too faithful eye
Blots one dear image out.
Though thou art ever fair and kind,
The forests ever green,
Less oft is peace in Shelley’s mind,
Than calm in waters, seen.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Legend
THERE is an hour, they say,
On which your dream has power:
Then all you wish for comes,
As comes the lost field-bird
Down to the island-lights;
There is an hour, they say,
That's woven with your wish:
In dawn, or dayli’ gone,
In mirk-dark, or at noon,
In hush or hum of day,
May be that secret hour.
A herd-boy in the rain
Who looked o'er stony fields;
A young man in a street,
When fife and drum went by,
Making the sunlight shrill;
A girl in a lane,
When the long June twilight
Made friendly far-off things,
Had watch upon the hour:
The dooms they met are in
The song my grand-dam sings.
poem by Padraic Colum
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Harmonic Du Soir
Voici venir le temps
Now is the hour when, swinging in the breeze,
Each flower, like a censer, sheds its sweet.
The air is full of scents and melodies,
O languorous waltz ! O swoon of dancing feet!
Each flower, like a censer, sheds its sweet,
The violins are like sad souls that cry,
O languorous waltz ! O swoon of dancing feet!
A shrine of Death and Beauty is the sky.
The violins are like sad souls that cry,
Poor souls that hate the vast. black night of Death ;
A shrine of Death and Beauty is the sky.
Drowned in red blood, the Sun gives up his breath.
This soul that hates the vast black night of Death
Takes all the luminous past back tenderly,
Drowned in red blood, the Sun gives up his breath.
Thine image like a monstrance shines in me.
poem by Lord Alfred Douglas
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The Ballad of Father Gilligan
The old priest Peter Gilligan
Was weary night and day
For half his flock were in their beds
Or under green sods lay.
Once, while he nodded in a chair
At the moth-hour of the eve
Another poor man sent for him,
And he began to grieve.
'I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,
For people die and die;
And after cried he, 'God forgive!
My body spake not I!'
He knelt, and leaning on the chair
He prayed and fell asleep;
And the moth-hour went from the fields,
And stars began to peep.
They slowly into millions grew,
And leaves shook in the wind
And God covered the world with shade
And whispered to mankind.
Upon the time of sparrow chirp
When the moths came once more,
The old priest Peter Gilligan
Stood upright on the floor.
'Mavrone, mavrone! The man has died
While I slept in the chair.'
He roused his horse out of its sleep
And rode with little care.
He rode now as he never rode,
By rocky lane and fen;
The sick man's wife opened the door,
'Father! you come again!'
'And is the poor man dead?' he cried
'He died an hour ago.'
The old priest Peter Gilligan
In grief swayed to and fro.
'When you were gone, he turned and died,
As merry as a bird.'
The old priest Peter Gilligan
He knelt him at that word.
'He Who hath made the night of stars
For souls who tire and bleed,
Sent one of this great angels down,
To help me in my need.
'He Who is wrapped in purple robes,
With planets in His care
Had pity on the least of things
Asleep upon a chair.'
poem by William Butler Yeats
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The Dead Church
On dark benches they sit packed
And lift extinguished looks
To the cross. The lights gleam as if covered,
And cloudy and as if covered the head of wounds.
The incense rises from a golden vessel
To the height, dying songs
Exhale, and as if afflicted the room dusks
Uncertainly and sweet. The priest strides
Before the altar; but, he practices the pious rites
With tired spirit - a miserable player
Before bad prayers with numb hearts,
In soulless play with bread and wine.
The bell sounds! The lights flicker more cloudily -
And paler, as if covered the head of wounds!
The organ hisses! In dead hearts memory
shudders on! A bleeding countenance of pain
Wraps itself in darkness and the despair
Stares after him in the emptiness from many eyes.
And one who sounded like all voices,
Sobs - meanwhile the horror grew in the room,
The death-horror grew: Have mercy on us -
Lord!
poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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