En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Garden Street

LONG and drowsy and white and wide,
Villas and arbours on either side,
Pleasant under the cloudless skies,
Garden Street in the sunlight lies.
Twice a day — at the morning hour,
And again when the lights of sunset flower —
Its pavements ring to the footfall-noise
Of men and women, and girls and boys.
Townward, sprightly of foot, they go;
Home they come in the evening glow,
Labours over and questing done —
Some with money and some with none.
Most hours through, from morn to night,
It dreams and dreams in the drowsy light:
No call is there of the huckster-clan,
Of the bottle-oh and the rabbit-man.
Wafted odours of nameless flowers
Perfume the march of the golden hours;
Under the laurels, cooling the eye,
Pools of shade in the sunshine lie.
All day long, and night-long too,
Sunlight-sweetened or washed by dew,
Leaf and petal and fern and palm
Open their lungs, out-breathing balm.
Now the cooing of doves is heard,
Now the song of a single bird;
Beetles drone, and the murmuring bees
Make their round of the flowers and trees.
Echoes alone of the trouble and strife,
Stir and flurry and noise of life —
Hints alone of its fever and heat
Steal through the quiet of Garden Street.
Traffic and Trade with eyes awry
Seek the city, and pass it by;
Few daylong through its distance wend
With money to make or money to spend.
Yet yesterday, when the moon was sped,
Up and down, with a furtive tread,
Lounged a rogue with a wistful smile,
Whistling a jig on the wind the while.
Twice or thrice in the stirless trance
Stilling his feet, he paused to glance
Over the way to the vine-clad gate
Where the laurels droop and the poppies wait.
Rogue and robber and fool, I swear —
Love was the plunder that brought him there;
Love that laughed through a curtain of green,
Watching his tricks the while, I ween.
Rogue and robber, he went away
Sour and sick at the end of day,
Empty of hope and sad to see;
For bolt and bar on her heart had she.
She who lives in the Doric house,
Secret and shy as a little mouse,
Dainty and dear from head to feet —
Pansy. Princess of Garden Street!

poem by Roderic Quinn
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A Kentish Garden

THERE is a grey-walled garden, far away
From noise and smoke of cities, where the hours
Pass with soft wings among the happy flowers,
And lovely leisure blossoms every day.

There, tall and white, the sceptral lily blows;
There grow the pansy, pink, and columbine,
Brave hollyhocks, and star-white jessamine,
And the red glory of the royal rose.

There greeny glow-worms gem the dusky lawn,
The lime-trees breathe their fragrance to the night,
Pink roses sleep, and dream that they are white,
Until they wake to colour with the dawn.

There, in the splendour of the sultry noon,
The sunshine sleeps upon the garden bed
Where the white poppy droops a drowsy head
And dreams of kisses from the white full moon.

And there, some days, all wild with wind and rain,
The tossed trees show the white side of their leaves,
While the great drops drip from the ivied eaves,
And birds are still--till the sun shines again.

And there, all days, my heart goes wandering,
Because there, first, my heart began to know
The glories of the summer and the snow,
The loveliness of harvest and of spring.

There may be fairer gardens; but I know
There is no other garden half so dear;
Because 'tis there, this many, many a year,
The sacred, sweet, white flowers of memory grow!

poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Skylark's Message

SWEET little upturned faces,
Poor little hands and feet,
Little eyes that are careworn and anxious
From hunger and want in the street,
Hear ye that skylark singing
5
Like an angel far away?
'Tis bringing to you a message
From the Golden Gates of day.
Ah, little know ye of the meadows,
Poor little blistered feet,
10
Down in the smoke of the city,
Down in the noise of the street!
But it sings of a better country,
Where tired little hearts can rest;
Of a sun that shines for ever,
15
And the love of a Father's breast.
O poor little weary spirits,
I would that ye knew its song,
For the world is very heartless,
And your journey may be long;
20
And ye need such heavenly music
To cheer you in the night,
Little hearts that are now so noble,
Little souls that are now so white.
I would that ye heard it always,
25
That sweet bird's voice within,
When the heart is sad and lonely
In the long, long struggle with sin;
Till a rest comes out of the sunset
For the labouring hands and feet,
30
And a silence has fallen for ever
On the noise and the dust of the street.

poem by Frederick George Scott
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A Life's Story

THE morning broke in a pearly haze,
Then the east grew duskly red:
'Oh, my only day, oh, my day of days,
To-day he will come,' I said.

As the sun climbed up in the clearer sky,
The mists fell down at his feet;
'There is sunshine too in my heart,' said I,
'For to-day is the day we meet;

Perhaps even now he is journeying fast--
Perhaps he is almost here.'
And my heart leaped up at each foot that passed,
With the thought that he might be near.

In my garden the fairest flowers that grew
I plucked for him, sweet, dew-wet,
And held them ready, the whole day through,
To gladden him when we met.

The sun shone warm on the longing earth,
That thrilled to his fervent kiss;
But what to me was the sun's smile worth,
When I longed for that smile of his?

The hours in their flight seemed strangely slow
For the sake of the hour to be;
'Go swiftly now--and more slowly go
When he shall be here with me.'

But the level light of late afternoon
Fell cold on me, still alone;
My flowers were dying, gathered too soon,
And my whole day's work undone.

With empty heart and unsatisfied
I turned from the red sunset:
'Short time for his coming is left,' I cried,
'It shall not be evening yet.'

But the sky grows pale, and a weak wind wakes,
And long flights of birds go home,
And slowly and surely the day's spell breaks,
And I know that he will not come.

Perhaps he has never turned my way,
Nor known how my heart would wait;
Perhaps he has sought me the whole long day,
And has failed at my very gate;

Perhaps all these hours of increasing pain
Have been only a dream of a day,
And after the night I shall wake again,
And 'To-day he comes,' I shall say.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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Pruning Flowering Gums

One summer day, along the street,
Men pruned the gums
To make them neat.
The tender branches, white with flowers,
Lay in the sun
For hours and hours,
And every hour they grew more sweet,
More honey-like
Until the street
Smelt like a hive, withouten bees.
But still the gardeners
Lopped the trees.
Then came the children out of school,
Noisy and separate
As their rule Of being is. The spangled trees
Gave them one heart:
Such power to please
Had all the flowering branches strown
Around for them
To make their own.
Then such a murmuring arose
As made the ears
Confirm the nose
And give the lie to eyes. For hours
Child bees hummed
In the honey flowers.
They gathered sprigs and armfuls. Some
Ran with their fragrant
Burdens home,
And still returned; and after them
Would drag great boughs.
Some stripped a stem
Of rosy flowers and played with these.
Never such love
Had earthly trees
As these young creatures gave. By night,
The treasured sprays
Of their delight
Were garnered every one. The street
Looked, as the council liked it, neat.

poem by Lesbia Harford
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Daffodils

Ho! You there, selling daffodils along the windy street,
Poor drooping, dusty daffodils - but oh! so Summer sweet!
Green stems that stab with loveliness, rich petal-cups to hold
The wine of Spring to lips that cling like bees about their gold!

What price to you for daffodils? I'll give what price you please,
For light and love and memory lie leaf by leaf with these!
And if I bought all Sydney Town I could not hope to buy
The wealth you bring of everything that goes with open sky!

My money for your daffodils: why do you thank me so?
If I have paid a reckless price, take up my gift and go,
And from the golden garden beds where gold the sunbeams shine
Bring in more flowers to light the hours for lover-hearts like mine!

poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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The Garden by Moonlight

A black cat among roses,
Phlox, lilac-misted under a first-quarter moon,
The sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock.
The garden is very still,
It is dazed with moonlight,
Contented with perfume,
Dreaming the opium dreams of its folded poppies.
Firefly lights open and vanish
High as the tip buds of the golden glow
Low as the sweet alyssum flowers at my feet.
Moon-shimmer on leaves and trellises,
Moon-spikes shafting through the snowball bush.
Only the little faces of the ladies' delight are alert and staring,
Only the cat, padding between the roses,
Shakes a branch and breaks the chequered pattern
As water is broken by the falling of a leaf.
Then you come,
And you are quiet like the garden,
And white like the alyssum flowers,
And beautiful as the silent sparks of the fireflies.
Ah, Beloved, do you see those orange lilies?
They knew my mother,
But who belonging to me will they know
When I am gone.

poem by Amy Lowell
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At Parting II

AND you could leave me now--
After the first remembered whispered vow
Which sings for ever and ever in my ears--
The vow which God among His Angels hears--
After the long-drawn years,
The slow hard tears,
Could break new ground, and wake
A new strange garden to blossom for your sake,
And leave me here alone,
In the old garden that was once our own?

How should I learn to bear
Our garden's pleasant ways and pleasant air,
Her flowers, her fruits, her lily, her rose and thorn,
When only in a picture these appear--
These, once alive, and always over-dear?
Ah--think again: the rose you used to wear
Must still be more than other roses be
The flower of flowers. Ah, pity, pity me!

For in my acres is no plot of ground
Whereon could any garden site be found,
I have but little skill
To water weed and till
And make the desert blossom like the rose;
Yet our old garden knows
If I have loved its ways and walks and kept
The garden watered, and the pleasance swept.

Yet--if you must--go now:
Go, with my blessing filling both your hands,
And, mid the desert sands
Which life drifts deep round every garden wall,
Make your new festival
Of bud and blossom--red rose and green leaf.
No blight born of my grief
Shall touch your garden, love; but my heart's prayer
Shall draw down blessings on you from the air,
And all we learned of leaf and plant and tree
Shall serve you when you walk no more with me
In garden ways; and when with her you tread
The pleasant ways with blossoms overhead
And when she asks, 'How did you come to know
The secrets of the ways these green things grow?'
Then you will answer--and I, please God, hear,
'I had another garden once, my dear'.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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Harlem Shadows

I hear the halting footsteps of a lass
In Negro Harlem when the night lets fall
Its veil. I see the shapes of girls who pass
To bend and barter at desire's call.
Ah, little dark girls who in slippered feet
Go prowling through the night from street to street!

Through the long night until the silver break
Of day the little gray feet know no rest;
Through the lone night until the last snow-flake
Has dropped from heaven upon the earth's white breast,
The dusky, half-clad girls of tired feet
Are trudging, thinly shod, from street to street.

Ah, stern harsh world, that in the wretched way
Of poverty, dishonor and disgrace,
Has pushed the timid little feet of clay,
The sacred brown feet of my fallen race!
Ah, heart of me, the weary, weary feet
In Harlem wandering from street to street.

poem by Claude McKay
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Distant Winters

There are spring flowers
Exuding an exhilarating fragrance
And unimaginable beauty.
If nurtured, they flourish
Throughout the summer.
In late autumn, every garden is sad
As the colors fade
And every delicate petal
Begins to fall to the ground.

There are certain flowers
That bring us immense joy for awhile
And then they’re never seen again.

Remain someone’s endearing flower
For as long as you have your being in the sunlight of life,
And then, perhaps,
The perfume of your love
Will long be wafted
Into the hearts you’ve touched
After distant winters
Have carried you far away.

poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Love Street

She lives on love street
Lingers long on love street
She has a house and garden
I would like to see what happens
She has robes and she has monkeys
Lazy diamond studded flunkies
She has wisdom and knows what to do
She has me and she has you
She has wisdom and knows what to do
She has me and she has you
I see you live on love street
Theres this store where the creatures meet
I wonder what they do in there
Summer sunday and a year
I guess I like it fine, so far
She lives on love street
Lingers long on love street
She has a house and garden
I would like to see what happens
La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la

song performed by by Doors
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Think of me

Think of me
while the horizon glows red
at dusk,
that folds like a translucent cloak
around the earth

where on the porch
you watch the wild doves
and people
passing in the street
and the church bell
counts the evening hour in the distance

and the sweet taste of the tea
disappear with satisfaction into you
and the night flowers
open their cups.

Think of me
while nights draws out long
and the smell of jasmine
comes sweet through the window
soaking in from the garden

and you awake
from your dreams at night
and the old black dog
make whimpering sounds in her sleep

because I am the whole time
right here next to you
and want to remember
every moment with you.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Lockerbie Street

Such a dear little street it is, nestled away
From the noise of the city and heat of the day,
In cool shady coverts of whispering trees,
With their leaves lifted up to shake hands with the breeze
Which in all its wide wanderings never may meet
With a resting-place fairer than Lockerbie street!

There is such a relief, from the clangor and din
Of the heart of the town, to go loitering in
Through the dim, narrow walks, with the sheltering shade
Of the trees waving over the long promenade,
And littering lightly the ways of our feet
With the gold of the sunshine of Lockerbie street.

And the nights that come down the dark pathways of dusk,
With the stars in their tresses, and odors of musk
In their moon-woven raiments, bespangled with dews,
And looped up with lilies for lovers to use
In the songs that they sing to the tinkle and beat
Of their sweet serenadings through Lockerbie street.

O my Lockerbie street! You are fair to be seen--
Be it noon of the day, or the rare and serene
Afternoon of the night-- you are one to my heart,
And I love you above all the phrases of art,
For no language could frame and no lips could repeat
My rhyme-haunted raptures of Lockerbie street.

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Little Garden

A little garden on a bleak hillside
Where deep the heavy, dazzling mountain snow
Lies far into the spring. The sun's pale glow
Is scarcely able to melt patches wide
About the single rose bush. All denied
Of nature's tender ministries. But no, --
For wonder-working faith has made it blow
With flowers many hued and starry-eyed.
Here sleeps the sun long, idle summer hours;
Here butterflies and bees fare far to rove
Amid the crumpled leaves of poppy flowers;
Here four o'clocks, to the passionate night above
Fling whiffs of perfume, like pale incense showers.
A little garden, loved with a great love!

poem by Amy Lowell
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Come Into the Garde, Maud

Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune:
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, "There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lordlover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever, mine."

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewelprint of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
And the lily whispers, "I wait."

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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O'.. There Comes My Fiancee!

All the teen boys playing in the street
Stop their play and suddenly turn into adult!
On that street side in the fading sunlight …! !

Even the swaying elderly men
Tries to steady them throwing the stick!
On that street side in the fading sunlight …! !

The ape which jumps tree to tree
Made its mind to sit on the wall watching!
On that street side in the fading sunlight …! !

Even the drivers of speedy vehicles stop
And look keenly at the sides of speed breaker!
On that street side in the fading sunlight …! !

All the teen age girls are disgusted,
And discouraged at their sight on the platform!
On that street side in the fading sunlight …! !

O'.. I see! There comes my fiancee!
On that street side in the fading sunlight …! !

poem by V.K. Kanniappan
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City Streets

The gaudy glow of neon lights
dispels the darkness of the nights
on city streets.

They pop and fizzle noisily
creating a cacophony
on city streets.

The sober folks walk warily
and drunks stagger uncaringly
on city streets.

The ladies of the night parade
for there is money to be made
on city streets.

Drug dealers ready to retreat
if they should hear a coppers feet
on city streets.

The night shift workers wend their way
towards their work to start their day
on city streets.

The noisy revellers thin out
as one by one the signs go out
on city streets.

The gradually noises abate
and ghostly shadow congregate
on city streets.

For some few hours peace will reign
before the noise will start again
on city streets.

The early morning traffic sounds
start with the milkmen on their rounds
on city streets.

This builds up to an angry roar
as cars and lorries inward pour
on city streets

then when at last rush hour has passed
noise levels will subside at last
on city streets

I thank the lord that I am free
to leave this noise far behind me
on city streets.

I walked my beat the whole night
through exactly as I’m paid to do
on city streets.

I choose to live outside the town
where constant noise won’t get me down
on city streets.

My village is a quiet place
A haven where I need not face
the noisy streets.

8-Jun-07
poeticpiers

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Song V

THE sunshine of your presence lies
On the glad garden of my heart
And bids the leaves of silence part
To show the flowers to your dear eyes,
And flower on flower blooms there and dies
And still new buds awakened spring,
For sunshine makes the garden wise,
To know the time for blossoming.

Night is no time for blossoming,
Your garden then dreams otherwise,
Of vanished Summer, vanished Spring,
And how the dearest flower first dies.
Yet from your ministering eyes
Though night hath drawn me far apart
On the still garden of my heart
The moonlight of your memory lies.

poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Parting Hour

Not yet, dear love, not yet: the sun is high;
You said last night, 'At sunset I will go.'
Come to the garden, where when blossoms die
No word is spoken; it is better so:
Ah! bitter word 'Farewell.'

Hark! how the birds sing sunny songs of spring!
Soon they will build, and work will silence them;
So we grow less light-hearted as years bring
Life's grave responsibilities - and then
The bitter word 'Farewell.'

The violets fret to fragrance 'neath your feet,
Heaven's gold sunlight dreams aslant your hair:
No flower for me! your mouth is far more sweet.
O, let my lips forget, while lingering there,
Love's bitter word 'Farewell.'

Sunset already! have we sat so long?
The parting hour, and so much left unsaid!
The garden has grown silent - void of song,
Our sorrow shakes us with a sudden dread!
Ah! bitter word 'Farewell.'

poem by Olive Custance
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The Inky Night

How really eerie becomes the inky night,
Which street lights illuminate with pitiful glow,
Revealing alien shadows in swift flight,
And ghostly noises that echo 'in vacuo'.

Night gradually darkens all this world of ours,
Silence reigns, except for nature's cries,
The elements engage us, with their salient power,
And far flung stars sit quietly in the skies.

Whistling winds, down alleys, wing their way,
Hats fly off, and umbrellas invert with ease,
On pavements, the homeless, with nowhere to stay,
Curl up in cardboard boxes, and slowly freeze.

Between those hours of sunset and the dawn,
A fox sneaks out in search of needed fare,
To hunt until the awakening of the morn,
Returning thence, to cubs within her lair.

Whilst we sleep, nocturnal creatures stir,
The bat, the owl, the cat, all stalk abroad,
They have no fear of darkness, they prefer
This sunless land, which, they have long explored.

How really eerie becomes the inky night,
When street lights illuminate with pitiful glow,
We awake to sunshine and the gentle light,
But all was darkness and existed 'an initio'.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Mother of Three

Oh, to have a little farm,
A little hearth so warm and bright,
And three little boys all safe from harm
In from the winter night!

A little house with white-washed wall,
And thatched like any golden rick,
And the little boys within my call,
And they running so quick.

A garden and an apple tree,
And me so busy all the day,
And the little boys at home with me,
Merry out at their play.

There was a woman I've heard tell,
Whose three fine sons were killed. For sure
'Tis good to have them little and well
And just beyond your door.

This while back there is something wrong --
It may be that I miss the boys
Who filled the house the whole day long
With happy laughter and noise!

And often when I sit my lone
The sadness comes and lies on me
For the poor soul that has no son.
And me having the three!

And it's oh, to have the little farm
Under the golden thatch so bright,
And the little boys safe home from harm
Shut in with me at night!

poem by Katharine Tynan
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