Related quotes: Over the Wicklow mountains, Where...

Irish Air

Over the Wicklow mountains,
Where the air is pure as can be.
Over the hills and moor lands,
The waterfalls to see.
Spectacular the waters fall
Between the crevices deep,
To splash on rocks and boulders,
Down the mighty mountains steep.
The peat bogs on the moor land,
For fires to warm are toiled.
The men and women working.
Their clothes and hands are soiled.
But ‘tis worth the toil and strife
To see the Wicklow mountains dear.
To know the joy of being in Erin,
Where the air is crisp and clear.
You can keep your city factories,
And your office blocks so tall.
For to live and work in Ireland,
Is to know you have it all.

poem by Rosi Caswell
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Theres Gold In The Mountains

(words & music by giant - baum - kaye)
There are lots of girls in the mountains
And theyre worth their weight in gold
When theyre in my arms with their lovin charms
A treasure chest I hold
Well theres gold in the mountains, love in the hills
I dont need no city women with their diamonds and frills
Theres gold in the mountains and oh what scenery
The prettiest girls I ever did see
Theres such beauty there in the mountains
You can feel your knees growin weak
Every single boy feels the height of joy
When he climbs that mountain peak
Well theres gold in the mountains, love in the hills
I dont need no city women with their diamonds and frills
Theres gold in the mountains and oh what scenery
The prettiest girls I ever did see
I said theres gold in the mountains, love in the hills
I dont need no city women with their diamonds and frills
Theres gold in the mountains and oh what scenery
The prettiest girls I ever did see
I ever did see
I ever did see

song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Then There Are The Mountains

On a mountain's peak is there peace?
Mountains that overlook the quiet prairie.
Mountains that borders life in rural counties.
Mountains chiseled by years of wind and rain.
Mountain winds creep keeping all secrets.
Mountains a kin to the lower hills of death.
Mountains at the height of glamour baked in sunshine.
Mountains that reach for more majestic planes.
Mountains giving to the ridges, valleys and cliffs.
Mountains in spring the fulfillment of adventure and dream.
Mountains which can shelter one from storm.
Mountains an enduring symbol in poetry.
Mountains which inhabit the calls of the wild.
Mountains of spectacle, below the bending roads between.
Mountains embracing, magnifying the sounds of river.
Mountains the stellar monuments of time.

poem by William Blackman
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T8

there is a winding river
beside tall mountains
you must know that we have
crossed this river
ten times already

it is the same river
winding through the banks
of these foggy mountains

the tall cogon grasses
can deceive us and so

are the boulders of rocks
that lie along our paths

we are grasping for air
to reach the highest peak of these range

of mountains and valleys and
plains

at the topmost
there we can see the truth and negate

that we can never step twice
on that same river that winds through the hillsides

snake, boa, venomous circuitous foggy paths
damned, we stepped on the same river more than twice

this is the tenth, and this is the highest peak
the world is nothing but a winding snake.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Mountains Othings

The life Ive always wanted
I guess Ill never have
Ill be working for somebody else
Until Im in my grave
Ill be dreaming of a live of ease
And mountains
Oh mountains o things
To have a big expensive car
Drag my furs on the ground
And have a maid that I can tell
To bring me anything
Everyone will look at me with envy and with greed
Ill revel in their attention
And mountains
Oh mountains o things
Sweet lazy life
Champagne and caviar
I hope youll come and find me
Cause you know who we are
Those who deserve the best in life
And know what moneys worth
And those whose sole misfortune
Was having mountains o nothing at birth
Oh they tell me
Theres still time to save my soul
They tell me
Renounce all
Renounce all those material things you gained by
Exploiting other human beings
Consume more than you need
This is the dream
Make you pauper
Or make you queen
I wont die lonely
Ill have it all prearranged
A grave thats deep and wide enough
For me and all my mountains o things
Mostly I feel lonely
Good good people are
Good people are only
My stepping stones
Its gonna take all my mountains o things
To surround me
Keep all my enemies away
Keep my sadness and loneliness at bay
Ill be dreaming, dreaming...
Dreaming...

song performed by by Tracy Chapman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mountains, Canyons, and Rivers

Mountains, canyons, and rivers.
In the material and abstract they're nature.
We never were receivers, nor givers.
We were never indecisive, nor were we sure.

Mountains, tall and grand,
Might one see it as an obstacle?
On the other side lies a land,
In abstract and material, is much like a miracle.

Canyons, deep and daunting,
Might one see it as a rift?
Separated from one so loved, you stand staring.
Stand upright from where you lie; I'll give you a lift.

Rivers, soothing in a mellifluous flow,
Might one see it as their life?
By dawn and dusk you row,
Through a flow devoid of strife.

Mountains, canyons, and rivers.
We've seen them as ourselves.
And through realization in form of shivers,
We see sentience in us that delves.

poem by Leonardo David Tay
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Beast Of Codden Moor

fear rides the beast of codden moor
the men are hunting the beast of
codden moor

it run, s as fast as legs will carry
it, s breath steam, s on air so crisp
it, s heart beats a tempo of it, s own
faster faster faster faster faster
you beast of codden moor

but men ride horse, s fast as wind
to catch a beast on codden moor
that falls and tumbles through the snow
upon codden moor

it raises a head of strengh and beauty
a horn of bone lies within the head
of a beast of codden moor

death comes quick as spears stab down
as swords swish as they find virgin flesh
on this beast of codden moor

poem by Graham Russell
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The Water Ouzel

Little brown surf-bather of the mountains!
Spirit of foam, lover of cataracts, shaking your wings in falling waters!
Have you no fear of the roar and rush when Nevada plunges --
Nevada, the shapely dancer, feeling her way with slim white fingers?
How dare you dash at Yosemite the mighty --
Tall, white limbed Yosemite, leaping down, down over the cliff?
Is it not enough to lean on the blue air of mountains?
Is it not enough to rest with your mate at timberline, in bushes that hug
the rocks?
Must you fly through mad waters where the heaped-up granite breaks them?
Must you batter your wings in the torrent?
Must you plunge for life and death through the foam?

poem by Harriet Monroe
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Let the Spring Winds Blow

Who divided the rivers and mountains
Forty-five years ago, hearts were torn, blood flowed
Standing and waiting, turning to stone looking at my homeland
The cries of anguish are no longer heard No fertile land for the trees to grow, no water to float the ships
No flight in the sky, where did it go
Known long ago, Korea was the rising sun of the East
Everywhere, tall trees, clear waters, blue skies To roam everywhere, to greet everyone
But that was yesterday
Spring comes to other countries, where everyone can travel
But winter snow blocks the path to my homeland Following year to year, people and seasons come and go
I am waiting, why are the spring winds not blowing
Winter is long and cold but spring must come
The seeds are waiting to bloom Spring has arrived, let us join hands
Let us plant trees on the mountains
Let us sail our ships on the rivers
Let us fly far into the sky

poem by Michael I. Byun
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Mountains

Once upon a time in a land called fantasy
17 mountains stood so high.
The sea surrounded them and together they would be
The only thing that ever made u cry
U said the devil told u that another mountain would appear
Everytime somebody broke your heart
He said the sea would 1 day overflow with all your tears,
And love will always leave u lonely
But I say its only mountains and the sea
Love will conquer if u just believe (oh yeah)
Its only mountains and the sea
Theres nothing greater, u and me
Once upon a time in a haystack of despair,
Happiness sometimes hard 2 find. (yeah)
Africa divided, hijack in the air,
Its enough to make you want to lose your mind
But I say its only mountains and the sea
Love will conquer if u just believe (oh yeah)
Its only mountains and the sea
Theres nothing greater, u and me
Guitars and drums on the 1
(bobby on the drum - ah!)
Its only mountains (oh yeah) and the sea. (and the girls sing)
Theres nothing greater, u and me
[starvation]
Mountains

song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mountains Of Guilt

We build our own mountains,
the pinnacles in our strife.
The mountains of guilt
that harbours all our fears.
We fear to talk to friends
in case our failure with them
brings anger and condemnation.

However, some are not like that,
their patience is long and lasting.
They feel no anger only frustration
when someone fails to contact them.
They begin to build their own mountains
fearing they have done something wrong,
but know not what.

Therefore, more mountains
are gathered here and there
because no consultation
takes place anywhere.
Friends should never feel that constraint
for whatever wrong
they think they have done.

I stand a friend to all
harbouring no ill will to anyone.
I just wish the same
could be said for lots of others.
One day they will learn a lesson
anger does not inherit everyone.
Some just rely on kind thoughts
to get them each day through.

Murky waters maybe deep,
uncertainty rules our head.
Do not neglect someone
for fear what they might say
because you maybe surprised
by the welcome
waiting for you there.

19 February 2011

poem by David Harris
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Our Mountains

Everyone has their mountains
that they want to climb,
mountains whose summits
reach up and touch the sky.

We go through our lives
climbing our mountains
and at times, we stumble
and slip a little behind.

Picking ourselves up
then start our trek again
never losing sight
of what lays a head.

One day we will reach the summit
and stand there breathing in
the clear cool air
when we finally get there.

Our achievement is recorded
along with all the other
mountains we’ve had to climb.
Our testament of determination.

It’s our dreams that seem elusive
until we make them come true
through our struggles and modifications
to taste the clear cool air.

(22 May 2011)

poem by David Harris
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Mother India

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.
You are the paradise on earth
Where things are not in any dearth.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

In Your Lap live men and women
Of every caste and religion.
You rain your love and affection
On them all without distinction.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

You have got a peculiar trait
Due to which you are very great.
You adopt the foreigners too,
Who like to live and die for you.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

You are beautiful, all perfect;
You are rich in every aspect.
In the ancient times, we have heard,
Aliens called you ‘a golden bird’

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

The mountains guard your honour here;
The ocean washes your feet there.
The rivers contain sweet water
Which for us is just like nectar.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

Our culture is ancient and high,
We are respected that is why.
Culture has bound us by and by,
With a chain of pure love and tie.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

We are sorry here live some men
Who are not loyal, but still then,
Pose as lovers of this nation,
Whom we do not like to mention.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

We are sorry here live some men;
Fire of hatred they ever fan.
Freedom, we fear, may not be lost,
Which we have got at a great cost.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

Let us be wise not to be tool
Of selfish powers which befool
Those who do not well understand
Their aim which is behind their stand.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

We will be lucky, if we die
For you, O Gracious Country High!
We’ll give them a fitting reply,
Who see you with a slanting eye.

O Mother Land! O Mother Land!
You are very dear and rare land.

poem by Aziz Ahmad
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On a Spanish Cathedral

DEEP under the spires of a hill, by the feet of the thunder-cloud trod,
I pause in a luminous, still, magnificent temple of God!
At the steps of the altar august—a vision of angels in stone—
I kneel, with my head to the dust, on the floors by the seraphim known.
No father in Jesus is near, with the high, the compassionate face;
But the glory of Godhead is here—its presence transfigures the place!
Behold in this beautiful fane, with the lights of blue heaven impearled,
I think of the Elders of Spain, in the deserts—the wilds of the world!

I think of the wanderers poor who knelt on the flints and the sands,
When the mighty and merciless Moor was lord of the Lady of Lands.
Where the African scimitar flamed, with a swift, bitter death in its kiss,
The fathers, unknown and unnamed, found God in cathedrals like this!
The glow of His Spirit—the beam of His blessing—made lords of the men
Whose food was the herb of the stream, whose roof was the dome of the den.
And, far in the hills by the sea, these awful hierophants prayed
For Rome and its temples to be—in a temple by Deity made.

Who knows of their faith—of its power? Perhaps, with the light in their eyes,
They saw, in some wonderful hour, the marvel of centuries rise!
Perhaps in some moment supreme, when the mountains were holy and still,
They dreamed the magnificent dream that came to the monks of Seville!
Surrounded by pillars and spires whose summits shone out in the glare
Of the high, the omnipotent fires, who knows what was seen by them there?
Be sure, if they saw, in the noon of their faith, some ineffable fane,
They looked on the church like a moon dropped down by the Lord into Spain.

And the Elders who shone in the time when Christ over Christendom beamed
May have dreamed at their altars sublime the dream that their fathers had dreamed,
By the glory of Italy moved—the majesty shining in Rome—
They turned to the land that they loved, and prayed for a church in their home;
And a soul of unspeakable fire descended on them, and they fought
And laboured a life for the spire and tower and dome of their thought!
These grew under blessing and praise, as morning in summertime grows—
As Troy in the dawn of the days to the music of Delphicus rose.

In a land of bewildering light, where the feet of the season are Spring’s,
They worked in the day and the night, surrounded by beautiful things.
The wonderful blossoms in stone—the flower and leaf of the Moor,
On column and cupola shone, and gleamed on the glimmering floor.
In a splendour of colour and form, from the marvellous African’s hands
Yet vivid and shining and warm, they planted the Flower of the Lands.
Inspired by the patience supreme of the mute, the magnificent past,
They toiled till the dome of their dream in the firmament blossomed at last!

Just think of these men—of their time—of the days of their deed, and the scene!
How touching their zeal—how sublime their suppression of self must have been!
In a city yet hacked by the sword and scarred by the flame of the Moor,
They started the work of their Lord, sad, silent, and solemnly poor.
These fathers, how little they thought of themselves, and how much of the days
When the children of men would be brought to pray in their temple, and praise!
Ah! full of the radiant, still, heroic old life that has flown,
The merciful monks of Seville toiled on, and died bare and unknown.

The music, the colour, the gleam of their mighty cathedral will be
Hereafter a luminous dream of the heaven I never may see;
To a spirit that suffers and seeks for the calm of a competent creed,
This temple, whose majesty speaks, becomes a religion indeed;
The passionate lights—the intense, the ineffable beauty of sound—
Go straight to the heart through the sense, as a song would of seraphim crowned.
And lo! by these altars august, the life that is highest we live,
And are filled with the infinite trust and the peace that the world cannot give.

They have passed, have the elders of time—they have gone; but the work of their hands,
Pre-eminent, peerless, sublime, like a type of eternity stands!
They are mute, are the fathers who made this church in the century dim;
But the dome with their beauty arrayed remains, a perpetual hymn.
Their names are unknown; but so long as the humble in spirit and pure
Are worshipped in speech and in song, our love for these monks will endure;
And the lesson by sacrifice taught will live in the light of the years
With a reverence not to be bought, and a tenderness deeper than tears.

poem by Henry Kendall
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