Homeward Going
GRAY smoke in the green leaves,
Someone homeward going,
No sound in the lone hills . . .
Only cattle lowing.
Still trees and a hushed world,
Leaf and limb unshaken,
No wind in the tall grass,
Creeksides bird-forsaken.
Pale, pale and with mute lips
One in shadow lying —
Near gone from the green world,
Sorrow nigh him sighing.
Day's strife and a life's strife
Each in quiet ending;
Life's light and the dark of death
Softly interblending.
One star on a far ridge,
Home the Homeward going,
No sound on the lone hills . . .
Only cattle lowing.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Related quotes
Sestina
I have come, alas, to the great circle of shadow,
to the short day and to the whitening hills,
when the colour is all lost from the grass,
though my desire will not lose its green,
so rooted is it in this hardest stone,
that speaks and feels as though it were a woman.
And likewise this heaven-born woman
stays frozen, like the snow in shadow,
and is unmoved, or moved like a stone,
by the sweet season that warms all the hills,
and makes them alter from pure white to green,
so as to clothe them with the flowers and grass.
When her head wears a crown of grass
she draws the mind from any other woman,
because she blends her gold hair with the green
so well that Amor lingers in their shadow,
he who fastens me in these low hills,
more certainly than lime fastens stone.
Her beauty has more virtue than rare stone.
The wound she gives cannot be healed with grass,
since I have travelled, through the plains and hills,
to find my release from such a woman,
yet from her light had never a shadow
thrown on me, by hill, wall, or leaves’ green.
I have seen her walk all dressed in green,
so formed she would have sparked love in a stone,
that love I bear for her very shadow,
so that I wished her, in those fields of grass,
as much in love as ever yet was woman,
closed around by all the highest hills.
The rivers will flow upwards to the hills
before this wood, that is so soft and green,
takes fire, as might ever lovely woman,
for me, who would choose to sleep on stone,
all my life, and go eating grass,
only to gaze at where her clothes cast shadow.
Whenever the hills cast blackest shadow,
with her sweet green, the lovely woman
hides it, as a man hides stone in grass.
poem by Dante Alighieri
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Looking Back At The Greens
i too look back at those green things
from the point of view of my
green thumb
a vegetable garden without an aphid on a leaf
a row of roses, lush green leaves
and red blooms
some petals falling due to the
wind
a line of green mint trees along the path
leading to the highway
sounds of motors threatening what green there is
i come back and settle on this patch
of green meadows
and grass and gray shade
my own shadow cast
on the huge gabi leaf.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In some fields of grass under the hills (sestina)
This afternoon the peaks throw a big shade
with the black cliffs shining up on the hills,
while we lay together in the long grass,
I look in your eyes that are amber-green
while under my head there is a small stone
and you smile at me like the prettiest lady.
I had once known another charming lady;
that part of my life is now left in shade,
bad churchmen were casting stone upon stone,
while I had to flee from them to the hills
to pastures were everything is green
to find the Lord in divine fields of grass.
Under your head there is a crown of grass
and your mother is a gracious, kind lady,
around us everything is lovely green
while we are still resting in the cool shade,
we are softly chatting about life’s hills,
about walls of very hard granite stone.
Your eyes are much brighter than emerald stone
while all of your words are softer than grass,
reaching higher and beyond all the hills,
the high mountain which is dangerous lady,
while from our pain nothing gives any shade,
nowhere is a place of rest that is green.
Your summer dress is lovely, is bright green,
suddenly all our ails have turned to stone
I follow you further; see your small shade,
I am seen as one that woos any lady,
we walk past some flowers growing in grass,
climbing up higher into the foothills.
Bright streams are splashing down some of the hills,
with water transparent, sometimes cold and green,
love and lust burns like in a youthful lady
while I at that moment feel cold as stone,
we notice a deer feeding on lone grass
while our garments lie under a tree’s shade.
Far into the hills you want love till dusk’s shade,
where you peep like some green moss from the grass,
are tossing me with a stone like no lady.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Homeward Bound
I want to sit at home in my rockin chair
I dont want to travel the world
As far as Im concerned Ive had my share
But times more precious than gold
I dont wanna see another airplane seat
Or another hotel room
The home life to me seems really neat
I just wanna unpack for good
Buy me a ticket homeward bound (homeward bound)
Buy me a ticket homeward bound (oh homeward bound
Well it all seems the same when youve done it before
Theres no difference in the style
Theres no end insight or my own front door
Ill be a stay at home for awhile
So Ill have another drink and a cigarette
Just to console myself some how
Its not too bad if you can forget
Ive just got to find a way somehow
Buy me a ticket homeward bound (homeward bound)
Buy me a ticket homeward bound (oh homeward bound
Buy me a ticket homeward bound (homeward bound)
song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Evening Prayer
Wind stirs in expectation; it
softly strokes my face.
The March sun reassures me,
warms pale flesh
through layers of thick sweater
and winter coat.
Under indigo hills
new grass flows,
yellow and green,
as past distant ranges,
to the sky-bright, rounded sea
he flees and sends
a gift of clouds,
aflame
in glory.
Peace to the grass of the fields!
Peace
to dark hills and drifting clouds,
and to the sacrificial sun
peace!
poem by Steven Federle
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Sweet Was The Walk
Sweet was the walk along the narrow lane
At noon, the bank and hedge-rows all the way
Shagged with wild pale green tufts of fragrant hay,
Caught by the hawthorns from the loaded wain,
Which Age with many a slow stoop strove to gain;
And childhood, seeming still most busy, took
His little rake; with cunning side-long look,
Sauntering to pluck the strawberries wild, unseen.
Now, too, on melancholy's idle dreams
Musing, the lone spot with my soul agrees,
Quiet and dark; for through the thick wove trees
Scarce peeps the curious star till solemn gleams
The clouded moon, and calls me forth to stray
Thro' tall, green, silent woods and ruins gray.
poem by William Wordsworth
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At Twilight
Was it so long? It seems so brief a while
Since this still hour between the day and dark
Was ligntened by a little fellow’s smile;
Since we were wont to mark
The sunset’s crimson dim to gold, to gray,
Content to know that, though he loved to roam
Care-free among the comrades of his play,
Twilight would lead him home.
A year ago! The well-remembered hail
Of happy-hearted children on the green
We hear to-night, and see the sunset pale,
The distant hills between:
But when the busy feet shall homeward turn,
When little wearied heads shall seek for rest,
Where shall you find the weight for which you yearn,
Ah, tender mother-breast?
Dear lips, that in the twilight hushed and dim
Lulled him with murmured fantasies of song;
Dear slender arms, that safely sheltered him,
The empty years are long!
The night’s caressing wind moves babbling on,
And all the whispered gossip of the firs
Is busy with his name who now is gone—
My little lad and hers!
But if we so, with eager eyes and glad,
Looked forward to his coming in the gloom;
If so our hearts leaped out to meet the lad
Whose smile lit all the room,—
Shall there not be a Presence waiting thus
To still the bitter craving of the quest?
Shall there not be a welcome, too, for us
When we go home to rest?
Yes, God be thanked for this: the ashen-gowned
Sweet presence of the twilight, and, afar,
The strong, enduring hills, in beauty crowned
With one white, steadfast star!
A year ago? What, love, to us are years?
The selfsame twilight, cool, and calm, and dim,
That led him home to us, despite our fears,
Shall lead us home to him!
poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Green Hills
Green hills,
embroidered
mist, rich
rising ridge
fog filled
plunging fields
cattle,
black, weightless
rise poised
from bare bank
grazing
the grass of
heaven
poem by Steven Federle
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One Saturday Morning At The Mountain Top Inside The House
it is raining outside
it is the habitualness of the image that flows inside us
green grass and rolling hills and clouds a drifting
the sound of rain like footsteps of children playing under the shower from heaven
i sit upon a chair looking outside
i am not thinking about anything simply watching the rain
the green grass
the trees the sea and the horizon that extends more than what my eyes can see
more than what i can contain
this empty bowl with a wide mouth open
this hollowness that cannot speak because it does not have the exact words
to say
it seems to me that the correct existence that fills this void is nothing
but the silence of the trees, the grass, the hills and the far away seas
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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One for Sorrow; Two for Joy
Good morning Mr Magpie
alone again, like me
I greet you then I bless myself
and hope that I shall see
your lady busy in the trees
up here in Jagger Green.
The wind is soft and urgent
on the pale green Yorkshire hills
rooks fuss in high bare branches
looking down on silent mills
and the magpie is a single bird
up here in Jagger Green.
I watched him as he rested
in the Mayday morning light
then hard and low and straight there came
another flash of black and white
and the sun is like a woman's kiss
up here in Jagger Green.
poem by Hugh Mitchell
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Going Home
UNDER the young moon's slender shield
With the wind's cool lips on mine,
I went home from the Rabitty Field
As the clocks were striking nine.
The yews were dark in the level light,
The thorn-trees dropped with gold,
And a partridge called where the dew was white
In the grass on the edge of the fold.
O, had your hand been in my hand
As the long chalk-road I trod,
The green hills of the lovely land
Had seemed the hills of God.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Lone Yellow Flower Waves In The Open Fields
lone yellow flower
waves in the open fields
bowing according to the tune
among the sea of green;
lone yellow flower has no one to blame
and it seeks none to praise
for it knows all life comes in
when the conditions are right;
lone yellow flower knows
death comes in like the wind;
lone yellow flower
is never alone
for it is a part of the expression
of the earth and time and the universe;
lone yellow flower sees what is before and around
lone yellow flower observes what is within and about
and so lone yellow flower lives with no delusions
no beliefs of heaven and hell
fears none and does not live or die
to please or amuse or appease;
and lone yellow flower
blossoms and shines
and shrivels and ceases
in harmony
with what actually is;
lone yellow flower
waves in the open fields
bowing according to the tune
among the sea of green
poem by Raj Arumugam
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On The Eastern Ghats On A Monsoon Day
a benevolent sky
a silken road
uplifting green on either side
the blue-grey hills move farther away
as i move closer to them
always standing on a hill
the other hill looked more welcoming
never there a high point
nor a lower point!
hills to the right
hills to the left
hills in front
hills behind
down in the valleys
green stretches of paddy
dotted by men, women
from the virgin ghats
a soothing breeze
blowing across the hills
covers them in a huge grey cloud
carefully led here from elsewhere
the hills appear hazy
the trees dance to a merry tune
all connive to release
a comforting shower
tip tap goes the music
lo, here’s the shower
and a little distance away
no rain, the rain at its
game of hide and seek!
rain and breeze blown through
the thick foliage of
coffee and creepers of pepper
winding the sky-kissing silver oaks
the smell of rain
the aroma of air-ripples
touch my cheek
i step on to the road
to be one with the unique
blend of all the earthy perfumes
hordes of unruly cattle and goats
having had their fill
trail back homeward
their keeper struggling
to discipline them
men under large palm-leaf-umbrellas
women giggling with the showers
clouds enveloping us
clouds chasing us
i slowly but reluctantly descend
still smelling of the blended scents
still smelling of raindrops…
21jul2010
13.25hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Dialogue
The Lone Star: Why are you looking at me?
Me: : For a soulful company
The Lone Star: I am so above, you are far below
Me: : My heart yearns for a distant fellow
The Lone Star: Do I not blink too often!
Me: : My pulse beats too fast, O listen!
The Lone Star: I am a citizen of a cold universe
Me: : My heart warms for you and will never lapse
The Lone Star: I float alone like a wanderer
Me: : I can touch your reflection on a dew's sphere
The Lone Star: You miss me when there is a day's light
Me: : You sleep so quiet in depth of a day's bright
The Lone Star: For ages lonely I am here
Me: : When I shall leave my place, I will be right there
Shamik Bose 6.6.2010 Calcutta
poem by Shamik Bose
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New For Old
Bud blisters into life
Stretching for the light
Unfolding radiant green
Upturned palm to the sun
Life seeping in, breathing out
Green, Green so Green
Resurrected hope, so Green
Summer breeze stroking
Branches ebb and flow
Leaves so Green strong now
Fear not wind of change
Mellow summer turns
Green, green, green-yellow
Yellow area of dieing heart
Green lingers no more
Limp transparent yellow
Barely a breeze takes one
Fierce Hyde-like wind now
Cracking and ripping
Wind torn leaves fall
Life chords snapped
Death too early, still Green
Nourishment broken not ended
Seasons build up to tear down
To build up, to tear down
Leaves fall, Green leaves fall
And then some more
Until leaves are falling, falling
Trees and branches revealed
In the x-ray of autumn blast
Winter is coming
Winter is coming
Yellow pale yellow carpet
Beneath the naked tree
Yellow, mulchy brown
Once crisp leaves scatter
Green, yellow, transparent veins
Tired, half dead, leaves lose their grip
Join the autumn rain soaked mound
Providing new life to the roots
Old for new, New for Old
Seeds buried in death
Bring new life in Spring
In the end is the beginning.
poem by Adrian Wait
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After Drafting
NIGHT has fallen, night and darkness,
Night with star and planet splendid;
And the earth lies like a giant
Wrapt in sleep, with limbs extended.
Rest has stolen on the homestead,
On the long day's rush and riot,
And no sound of horse or rider
Breaks the soft and dewy quiet.
Yet, like heart-cries
After battle,
Comes the calling, ceaseless calling,
Of the dun and dappled cattle.
Sleep is sweet, and sweet is silence,
When the long day's work is over,
For the toiler and the moiler,
And the rider and the rover.
Not a breeze abroad at night-time
Sets the barley-grass aquiver,
And from dewfall on to sunrise
Sleeps the curlew by the river.
Yet no slumber
Anguish smothers;
Hark the calling, plaintive calling,
Of the robbed and stricken mothers!
Oh, how still are plain and river —
How all-sweet, how all-amazing!
By the stars' march night is numbered —
Rising, setting, zenith-blazing.
Peace has come upon the homestead;
Passed the long day's rush and riot;
Only from the drafted cattle
Comes a note of sad disquiet:
Dun and dappled,
Horned and poley —
They are lowing, lowly lowing,
With a helpless melancholy.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Song Of A Mountain Man
I come from Land of bracken hills and green meads fringed by hedges
And I am still a mountain man and rough around the edges
And now I live in Sherbrooke Shire in the Dandenong Ranges
From Bracken hills to gum tree hills the scenery so changes.
I've never cared for city life and I feel only pity
For those who have to live and work in the smoky inner city
Pollution clogs the city skies, the traffic noise and rattle
Down in the smoky concrete World life's like a constant battle.
The mountain man a healthy man the air he breathe is cleaner
And he's living in a Natural World a World that's quiet and greener
He's living in a Natural World his life span ought be longer
The mountain man a healthier man than city man far stronger.
I love the hills the quiet hills, the woods where birds are singing
And every time I leave the hills back to the hills my thoughts go winging
For I don't like the Concrete World the World of man's endeavour
And I'll always be a mountain man a mountain man forever.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Gippsland Hills
The hills of Gippsland were so green but that was in September
And songbirds piping happy songs as well I might remember
But now the Gippsland hills are gray since sun changed the grass colour
And though the sun shines hot today this countryside looks duller.
The Gippsland hills were green in Spring and grass growing winds were blowing
And all along the sunlit hills the wildering flowers were showing
And bell magpie piped his joyful notes and butcherbird was singing
And through those hills those happy hills the bushlark's voice went ringing.
The Gippsland hills the sunburnt hills grown lonelier and quieter
And like the shades of old man's hair they've turned a gray type whiter
The nearby creek in trickle flow, the birds have lost their voices
And not one of Nature's minstrels now on Gippsland hills rejoices.
The Gippsland hills the sunburnt hills have lost their Spring like colour
And though the sun shines hot today the Gippsland hills look duller
But Spring bring green to Gippsland hills Spring rains and soft winds blowing
And birds will sing on Gippsland hills and Gippsland creeks fast flowing.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Death Alone
There are lone cemeteries,
tombs full of soundless bones,
the heart threading a tunnel,
a dark, dark tunnel :
like a wreck we die to the very core,
as if drowning at the heart
or collapsing inwards from skin to soul.
There are corpses,
clammy slabs for feet,
there is death in the bones,
like a pure sound,
a bark without its dog,
out of certain bells, certain tombs
swelling in this humidity like lament or rain.
I see, when alone at times,
coffins under sail
setting out with the pale dead, women in their dead braids,
bakers as white as angels,
thoughtful girls married to notaries,
coffins ascending the vertical river of the dead,
the wine-dark river to its source,
with their sails swollen with the sound of death,
filled with the silent noise of death.
Death is drawn to sound
like a slipper without a foot, a suit without its wearer,
comes to knock with a ring, stoneless and fingerless,
comes to shout without a mouth, a tongue, without a throat.
Nevertheless its footsteps sound
and its clothes echo, hushed like a tree.
I do not know, I am ignorant, I hardly see
but it seems to me that its song has the colour of wet violets,
violets well used to the earth,
since the face of death is green,
and the gaze of death green
with the etched moisture of a violet's leaf
and its grave colour of exasperated winter.
But death goes about the earth also, riding a broom
lapping the ground in search of the dead -
death is in the broom,
it is the tongue of death looking for the dead,
the needle of death looking for the thread.
Death lies in our beds :
in the lazy mattresses, the black blankets,
lives a full stretch and then suddenly blows,
blows sound unknown filling out the sheets
and there are beds sailing into a harbour
where death is waiting, dressed as an admiral.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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A Ballad Maker
ONCE I loved a maiden fair,
Over the hills and jar away,
Lands she had and lovers to spare,
Over the hills and far away.
And I was stooped and troubled sore,
And my face was pale, and the coat I wore
Was thin as my supper the night before
Over the hills and far away.
Once I passed in the Autumn late,
Over the hills and jar away,
Her bawn and barn and painted gate,
Over the hills and jar away.
She was leaning there in the twilight space,
Sweet sorrow was on her fair young face,
And her wistful eyes were away from the place,
Over the hills and jar away.
Maybe she thought as she watched me come,
Over the hills and jar away,
With my awkward stride and my face so glum,
Over the hills and jar away.
Spite of his stoop, he still is young,
They say he goes the Shee among,
Ballads he makes; I've heard them sung
Over the hills and jar away.
She gave me good-night in gentle wise,
Over the hills and jar away,
Shyly lifting to mine, dark eyes,
Over the hills and jar away.
What could I do but stop and speak,
And she no longer proud, but meek?
She plucked me a rose like her wild-rose cheek-
Over the hills and jar away.
To-morrow Mavourneen a sleeveen weds,
Over the hills and jar away,
With corn in haggard and cattle in sheds,
Over the hills and jar away.
And I who have lost her, the dear, the rare-
Well, I got me this ballad to sing at the fair,
Twill bring enough money to drown my care,
Over the hills and jar away.
poem by Padraic Colum
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