The Old Language
England, what have you done to make the speech
My fathers used a stranger to my lips,
An offence to the ear, a shackle on the tongue
That would fit new thoughts to an abiding tune?
Answer me now. The workshop where they wrought
Stands idle, and thick dust covers their tools.
The blue metal of streams, the copper and gold
Seams in the wood are all unquarried; the leaves'
Intricate filigree falls, and who shall renew
Its brisk pattern? When spring wakens the hearts
Of the young children to sing, what song shall be theirs?
poem by Ronald Stuart Thomas
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Related quotes
Adonis
1.
Each of us like you
has died once,
has passed through drift of wood-leaves,
cracked and bent
and tortured and unbent
in the winter-frost,
the burnt into gold points,
lighted afresh,
crisp amber, scales of gold-leaf,
gold turned and re-welded
in the sun;
each of us like you
has died once,
each of us has crossed an old wood-path
and found the winter-leaves
so golden in the sun-fire
that even the live wood-flowers
were dark.
2.
Not the gold on the temple-front
where you stand
is as gold as this,
not the gold that fastens your sandals,
nor thee gold reft
through your chiselled locks,
is as gold as this last year's leaf,
not all the gold hammered and wrought
and beaten
on your lover's face.
brow and bare breast
is as golden as this:
each of us like you
has died once,
each of us like you
stands apart, like you
fit to be worshipped.
poem by Hilda Doolittle
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When I Will Sing My Own Song
A time may come when i'll sing my own song,
And that time is coming fast.
I'll sing my own song,
Perhaps a lyrical song coloured with joy,
And maybe a dirge bursting with sorrow
A time will come then i'll sing my own song,
A song in praise of fallen heroes,
A song in huge honour of hunger
A song for incessant insecurity,
A song of unemployment.
One thing i don't know
Is whether the church will sing to this song,
And dance to its tunes, or make it
A song for offering of offerings
I don't know whether to make it secular;
If it be ungodly, perhaps it may be a hit.
When i'll sing my own song
Children will hop over hills in awe;
Mothers will sing its tune mutely,
And fathers will remain unsure whether to join
Not long, i will sing a song.
I will sing to my own song,
Then the world know i desired peace,
And love, and accord.
Then the world will know
I'm tired of wanton carnages,
And famines that breed hunger,
And being quagmired by floods,
And being mixed in hysteria
Of dirty and ethnical politics!
When i'll sing my own song,
I know it'll be long overdue.
It may never be heard anywhere
It may remain deep rooted within my heart;
Or i may never have money
To pay for its acceptance by the people!
poem by Eric Lungai
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The willow
How beautiful is the willow in April gown
Delicate and gleaming under the sun
Never minding the seasons and years gone
It stands, long flowery drippings and soft wind sigh
Spring does not call me as it use to
With sprouts in vast meadows and balmy flowers of variety hues
No more shall I renew myself with the world every spring
With heavy leafy boughs crowded with birds in sing
Willow, Willow sway, twinkle, lull in the sun
Your leaves, same leaves of my past days gone
Welcome me as the spring use to in wild laugh and fun
Oh let me answer the spring again for my days are still undone
Copy rights 2010
All rights reserved
My Piney Wood
I have a tiny piney wood;
my trees are only fifty,
Yet give me shade and solitude
For they are thick and thrifty.
And every day to me they fling
With largess undenying,
Fat cones to make my kettle sing
And keep my pan a-frying.
Go buy yourself a piney wood
If you have gold for spending,
Where you can dream in mellow mood
With peace and joy unending;
Where you can cheerfully retreat
Beyond all churchly chiding,
And make yourself a temple sweet
Of rapturous abiding.
Oh silence has a secret voice
That claims the soul for portal,
And those who hear it may rejoice
Since they are more than mortal.
So sitting in my piney wood
When soft the owl is winging,
As still as Druid stone I brood . . .
For hark! the stars are singing.
poem by Robert William Service
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Out Of The Fulness Of The Heart The Mouth Speaketh
In answer to those who have said that English Poets
give no personal love to their country.
ENGLAND, my country, austere in the clamorous council of nations,
Set in the seat of the mighty, wielding the sword of the strong,
Have we but sung of your glory, firm in eternal foundations?
Are not your woods and your meadows the core of our heart and our song?
O dear fields of my country, grass growing green, glowing golden,
Green in the patience of winter, gold in the pageant of spring,
Oaks and young larches awaking, wind-flowers and violets blowing,
What, if God sets us to singing, what save you shall we sing?
Who but our England is fair through the veil of her poets' praises,
What but the pastoral face, the fruitful, beautiful breast?
Are not your poets' meadows starred with the English daisies?
Were not the wings of their song-birds fledged in an English nest?
Songs of the leaves in the sunlight, songs of the fern-brake in shadow,
Songs of the world of the woods and songs of the marsh and the mere,
Are they not English woods, dear English marshland and meadow?
Have not your poets loved you? England, are you not dear?
Shoulders of upland brown laid dark to the sunset's bosom,
Living amber of wheat, and copper of new-ploughed loam,
Downs where the white sheep wander, little gardens in blossom,
Roads that wind through the twilight up to the lights of home.
Lanes that are white with hawthorn, dykes where the sedges shiver,
Hollows where caged winds slumber, moorlands where winds wake free,
Sowing and reaping and gleaning, spring and torrent and river,
Are they not more, by worlds, than the whole of the world can be?
Is there a corner of land, a furze-fringed rag of a by-way,
Coign of your foam-white cliffs or swirl of your grass-green waves,
Leaf of your peaceful copse, or dust of your strenuous highway,
But in our hearts is sacred, dear as our cradles, our graves?
Is not each bough in your orchards, each cloud in the skies above you,
Is not each byre or homestead, furrow or farm or fold,
Dear as the last dear drops of the blood in the hearts that love you,
Filling those hearts till the love is more than the heart can hold?
Therefore the song breaks forth from the depths of the hidden fountain
Singing your least frail flower, your raiment of seas and skies,
Singing your pasture and cornfield, fen and valley and mountain,
England, desire of my heart, England, delight of mine eyes!
Take my song too, my country: many a son and debtor
Pays you in praise and homage out of your gifts' full store;
Life of my life, my England, many will praise you better,
None, by the God that made you, ever can love you more!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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In Sanctuary
THE young Spring air was strong like wine,
The sky reflected in your eyes
Was of a blue as deep-divine
As ever glowed in southern skies.
We passed from out the sunny lane
Into the green wood's shadowing;
And, sudden, all Love's words seemed vain
In that calm temple of the Spring.
Our god hears fair and tuneful words,
And splendid flowers his altars bear;
With choric song of leaves and birds,
Another god was worshipped there.
Silent, we passed the woodland, through
The coloured maze that Springtime weaves--
The light leaves dancing to the blue,
The sunlight dancing to the leaves;
I could not speak. I touched your hand
At the green arch that ends the wood:
'Ah--if she should not understand!'
Ah--if you had not understood!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Sing You Children
(words & music by nelson - burch)
Oh jonah he was desperate in the belly of the whale
Well jonah had a plan, he knew he couldnt fail
He raised his head on high
And looking for the sky
And he sang his song so pretty
The whale told him goodbye
You got to sing you children sing
Sing you children sing
I only know one thing, hey! hey! hey!
Sing you children sing, everybody
Sing you children sing
Sing your troubles away
Well moses said good lord
Open up these waters for me
So I can get your chidren
Across the salty sea
Well the lord parted the waters
And singing hand in hand
Moses and the children
Walked over to the promised land
You got to sing you children sing
Sing you children sing
I only know one thing, hey! hey! hey!
Sing you children sing, everybody
Sing you children sing
Sing your troubles away
Oh joshua had a plan
At the walls of jericho
Hed march around those walls
And on his horn hed blow
That horn would play a tune
And sing a happy song
When joshua got through
Those walls came tumbling down
You got to sing you children sing
Sing you children sing
I only know one thing, hey! hey! hey!
Sing you children sing, everybody
Sing you children sing
Sing your troubles away
You got to sing your troubles away
Sing your troubles away
Sing your troubles away
Sing your troubles away
Sing your troubles away
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On A Group Of Justice And Charity
WHAT do the scales of Justice hold,
Poised even in that steady hand?--
What is that measure closely scanned?
Is one side weighted down with gold?
Or is she clamorous for her right?
Surely for that she bides too still!
Rather, it seems to me, her sight
Is cognisant of good and ill.
With level brows this Justice stands
And weighs her duties one by one;--
And if she pleads, or if commands,
It is lest these be left undone,
Or slurred through weakness and constraint;--
This noble Justice was not bred
In hearts defiled with any taint
Of selfish seeking, dark and dead.
Give, if you will, another name
To those fine scales so nicely hung,
And call her Conscience, and proclaim
Her sovereign right with every tongue--
But, because she is mortal, trust
Her not alone, lest, too severe,
She take account with diamond dust
Of baser metal; her beside
Let loving Charity abide,
With her young children gathered near.
poem by Bessie Rayner Parkes
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The Wistful Days
What is there wanting in the Spring?
The air is soft as yesteryear;
The happy-nested green is here,
And half the world is on the wing.
The morning beckons, and like balm
Are westward waters blue and calm.
Yet something’s wanting in the Spring.
What is it wanting in the Spring?
O April, lover to us all,
What is so poignant in thy thrall
When children’s merry voices ring?
What haunts us in the cooing dove
More subtle than the speech of Love,
What nameless lack or loss of Spring?
Let Youth go dally with the Spring,
Call her the dear, the fair, the young;
And all her graces ever sung
Let him, once more rehearsing, sing.
They know, who keep a broken tryst,
Till something from the Spring be missed
We have not truly known the Spring.
poem by Robert Underwood Johnson
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In Springtime
My garden blazes brightly with the rose-bush and the peach,
And the koil sings above it, in the siris by the well,
From the creeper-covered trellis comes the squirrel's chattering speech,
And the blue jay screams and flutters where the cheery sat-bhai dwell.
But the rose has lost its fragrance, and the koil's note is strange;
I am sick of endless sunshine, sick of blossom-burdened bough.
Give me back the leafless woodlands where the winds of Springtime range --
Give me back one day in England, for it's Spring in England now!
Through the pines the gusts are booming, o'er the brown fields blowing chill,
From the furrow of the ploughshare streams the fragrance of the loam,
And the hawk nests on the cliffside and the jackdaw in the hill,
And my heart is back in England 'mid the sights and sounds of Home.
But the garland of the sacrifice this wealth of rose and peach is,
Ah! koil, little koil, singing on the siris bough,
In my ears the knell of exile your ceaseless bell like speech is --
Can you tell me aught of England or of Spring in England now?
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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I sing to you
I sing ta u the song I sing is joy
If you were gone then part of me would die
I would go on and leave part of me behind
for you and I are one in twined
I sing ta u the song I sing is faith
But the thought of you would never fade
the thought of blue sky's would turn to haze
I would prefer to help you through this maze
I sing ta u the song I sing is love
your very footsteps are notes to a song
and many loved ones sing a long
and of that chorus I belong
I curse the stone that blocks your way
The worrier rides the wind with this mission
To ask no question no answer need
Upon the path with lightning speed
I curse the changes that bind you
haven above and hell below you
I'll take you home I'll take that chance
To dance with you if the offer stands
I sing ta u the song I sing is Home
I miss it bad as hell
But if you leave this fairy tail
Then I must leave this world as well
poem by Paul Cutting
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Mr. Songbird
Won't you sing me a song or two,
Won't take you long to just sing to me please,
Won't you whistle a tune.
I got nothing to gain, i got nothing to lose,
But if you sing me a song,
You'll make me happy [?].
Sing mr. songbird,
Sing mr. songbird,
Sing mr. songbird,
You help to keep my troubles away.
Sing mr. songbird,
Sing mr. songbird,
Sing mr. songbird,
You help to keep my troubles away.
Mister, won't you sing me a song,
Won't you sing a little melody.
Won't you try to help me along,
Won't you sing a little song for me, oh yeah.
Sing me a song or two,
Won't take you long to just sing to me please,
Won't you whistle a tune.
Though i ain't got a beanie
'cause i've nothing to dream,
So if you waiting for nothing,
Do something for me.
Sing mr. songbird,
Sing mr. songbird,
Sing mr. songbird,
You help to keep my troubles away.
Sing mr. songbird,
Sing mr. songbird,
Sing mr. songbird,
You help to keep my troubles away.
You help to keep my problems away.
You help to keep the devil away.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mr Songbird (from 12 Track Edition)
Won't you sing me a song or two,
Won't take you long to just sing to me please,
Won't you whistle a tune.
I got nothing to gain, I got nothing to lose,
But if you sing me a song,
You'll make me happy [?].
Sing Mr. Songbird,
Sing Mr. Songbird,
Sing Mr. Songbird,
You help to keep my troubles away.
Sing Mr. Songbird,
Sing Mr. Songbird,
Sing Mr. Songbird,
You help to keep my troubles away.
Mister, won't you sing me a song,
Won't you sing a little melody.
Won't you try to help me along,
Won't you sing a little song for me, oh yeah.
Sing me a song or two,
Won't take you long to just sing to me please,
Won't you whistle a tune.
Though I ain't got a beanie
'Cause I've nothing to dream,
So if you waiting for nothing,
Do something for me.
Sing Mr. Songbird,
Sing Mr. Songbird,
Sing Mr. Songbird,
You help to keep my troubles away.
Sing Mr. Songbird,
Sing Mr. Songbird,
Sing Mr. Songbird,
You help to keep my troubles away.
You help to keep my problems away.
You help to keep the devil away.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Young Friar
When leaves broke out on the wild briar,
And bells for matins rung,
Sorrow came to the old friar
– Hundreds of years ago it was! –
And May came to the young.
The old was ripening for the sky,
The young was twenty-four.
The Franklin's daughter passed him by,
Reading a painted missal-book,
Beside the chapel door.
With brown cassock and sandalled feet,
And red Spring wine for blood;
The very next noon he chanced to meet
The Franklin's daughter, in a green May twilight,
Walking through the wood.
Pax vobiscum – to a maid
The crosiered ferns among!
But hers was only the Saxon,
And his the Norman tongue;
And the Latin taught by the old friar
Made music for the young.
And never a better deed was done
By Mother Church below
Than when she made old England one,
– Hundreds of years ago it was! –
Hundreds of years ago.
Rich was the painted page they read
Before that sunset died;
Nut-brown hood by golden head,
Murmuring Rosa Mystica,
While nesting thrushes cried.
A Saxon maid with flaxen hair,
And eyes of Sussex grey;
A young monk out of Normandy: –
'May is our Lady's month,' he said,
'And O, my love, my May!'
Then over the fallen missal-book
The missel-thrushes sung
Till – Domus Aurea – rose the moon
And bells for vespers rung.
It was gold and blue for the old friar,
But hawthorn for the young.
For gown of green and brown hood,
Before that curfew tolled,
Had flown for ever through the wood
– Hundreds of years ago it was! –
But twenty summers old.
And empty stood his chapel stall,
Empty his thin grey cell,
Empty her seat in the Franklin's hall;
And there were swords that searched for them
Before the matin bell.
And, crowders tell, a sword that night
Wrought them an evil turn,
And that the may was not more white
Than those white bones the robin found
Among the roots of fern.
But others tell of stranger things
Half-heard on Whitsun eves,
Of sweet and ghostly whisperings –
Though hundreds of years ago it was –
Among the ghostly leaves: –
Sero te amavi –
Grey eyes of sun-lit dew! –
Tam antiqua, tam nova –
Augustine heard it, too.
Late have I loved that May, Lady,
So ancient, and so new!
And no man knows where they were flown,
For the wind takes the may:
But white and fresh the may was blown
– Though hundreds of years ago it was –
As this that blooms to-day.
And the leaves break out on the wild briar,
And bells must still be rung;
But sorrow comes to the old friar,
For he remembers a May, a May,
When his old heart was young.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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Love Gone Bad
Sing me a song of love...
Sing me a song so sad...
Sing me a song of remembrance...
Sing me a song of love gone bad;
Write the words and the music--
In your own flamboyant sytle-
Accent it with elaborate details--
Fill it with your obvious guile;
Give it a melody thats catchy...
You know-a phrase like refrain...
About loves greatest ecstacy...
About its agony and pain;
And then sing a song of love...
And sing a song so very sad...
Sing me a song to show that you remember...
And sing a song 'bout love gone bad;
Give it all of your verve and elan...
Spice it up with a bit of rhytym and blue...
Make it a song that everyone identifies with...
Make its words right and true;
Make it an anthem...
Or make it a ballad flowing free...
Make sure the words tell it all...
With a most haunting melody;
And then sing a song of love...
Sing me a song of so very sad...
Sing me a song of remembrance...
Sing me a song of love gone bad;
Song Lyrics
June 10,2010
poem by Theodora Onken
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Kissing is a rehearsal.
I managed to kiss her on lips.
Lips unlocked, my tongue slipped in.
It darted through lips and about
Her mouth, touching her tongue on tip
Then at bottom and at corners,
Sucking the tongue and swallowing the juice
Till she got fire at her bottom.
Resistance gone, she surrendered.
Kissing is just a rehearsal.
Her mouth stands for her lower one.
Man's tongue stands for his under part.
The tongue signals the man's prowess.
09.08.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A Bunch Of Lonesome Heroes
A bunch of lonesome and very quarrelsome heroes
were smoking out along the open road;
the night was very dark and thick between them,
each man beneath his ordinary load.
"I'd like to tell my story,"
said one of them so young and bold,
"I'd like to tell my story,
before I turn into gold."
But no one really could hear him,
the night so dark and thick and green;
well I guess that these heroes must always live there
where you and I have only been.
Put out your cigarette, my love,
you've been alone too long;
and some of us are very hungry now
to hear what it is you've done that was so wrong.
I sing this for the crickets,
I sing this for the army,
I sing this for your children
and for all who do not need me.
"I'd like to tell my story,"
said one of them so bold,
"Oh yes, I'd like to tell my story
'cause you know I feel I'm turning into gold.
song performed by by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The House You Live In
Go first in the world, go forth with your fears
Remember a price must be paid
Be always too soon, be never too fast
At the time when all bets must be laid
Beware of the darkness, be kind to your children
Remember the woman who waits
And the house you live in will never fall down
If you pity the stranger who stands at your gate
When youre caught by the gale and youre full under sail
Beware of the dangers below
And the song that you sing should not be too sad
And be sure not to sing it too slow
Be calm in the face of all common disgraces
And know what theyre doin it for
And the house you live in will never fall down
If you pity the stranger who stands at your door
When youre out on the road and feelin quite lost
Consider the burden of fame
And he who is wise will not criticize
When other men fail at the game
Beware of strange faces and dark dingy places
Be careful while bending the law
And the house you live in will never fall down
If you pity the stranger who stands at your door
When youre down in the dumps and not ready to deal
Decide what it is that you need
Is it money or love, is it learnin to live
Or is it the mouth you must feed
Be known as a man who will always be candid
On questions that do not relate
And the house you live in will never fall down
If you pity the stranger who stands at your gate
And the house you live in will never fall down
If you pity the stranger who stands at your gate
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For The Love Of Gold Shining In Their Eyes
gold gold is the fever metal
for the love of gold shining in their eyes
men resort to violent base morals
gold lust will turn men's
hearts to savage beasts
gold is not a beautiful metal
of salvation
curse of death men's
gold haunts
generations of men
poem by Terence George Craddock
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April's Charms
When April scatters charms of primrose gold
Among the copper leaves in thickets old,
And singing skylarks from the meadows rise,
To twinkle like black stars in sunny skies;
When I can hear the small woodpecker ring
Time on a tree for all the birds that sing;
And hear the pleasant cuckoo, loud and long --
The simple bird that thinks two notes a song;
When I can hear the woodland brook, that could
Not drown a babe, with all his threatening mood;
Upon these banks the violets make their home,
And let a few small strawberry vlossoms come:
When I go forth on such a pleasant day,
One breath outdoors takes all my cares away;
It goes like heavy smoke, when flames take hold
Of wood that's green and fill a grate with gold.
poem by William Henry Davies
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