Like The Sweet Apple
Like the sweet apple that reddens
At end of the bough--
Far end of the bough--
Left by the gatherer's swaying,
Forgotten, so thou.
Nay, not forgotten, ungotten,
Ungathered (till now).
Related quotes
One Girl
I
Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost bough,
A-top on the topmost twig--which the pluckers forgot, somehow--
Forget it not, nay, but got it not, for none could get it till now.
II
Like the wild hyacinth flower which on the hills is found,
Which the passing feet of the shepherds for ever tear and wound,
Until the purple blossom is trodden in the ground.
Hast Thou Forgotten Me?
HAST thou forgotten me? the days are dark—
Light ebbs from heaven, and songless soars the lark—
Vexed like my heart, loud moans the unquiet sea—
Hast thou forgotten me?
Hast thou forgotten me? O dead delight
Whose dreams and memories torture me to-night—
O love—my life! O sweet—so fair to see—
Hast thou forgotten me?
Hast thou forgotten? Lo, if one should say—
Noontide were night, or night were flaming day—
Grief blinds mine eyes, I know not which it be!
Hast thou forgotten me?
Hast thou forgotten? Ah, if Death should come,
Close my sad eyes, and charm my song-bird dumb—
Tired of strange woes—my fate were hailed with glee—
Hast thou forgotten me?
Hast thou forgotten me? What joy have I?
A dim blown bird beneath an alien sky,—
O that on mighty pinions I could flee—
Hast thou forgotten me?
Hast thou forgotten? Yea, Love’s horoscope
Is blurred with tears and suffering beyond Hope—
Ah, like dead leaves forsaken of the tree,
Thou hast forgotten me.
poem by Philip Joseph Holdsworth
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Haven't Forgotten
I haven't forgotten when I meet you first!
I haven't forgotten when I greet you last!
I haven't forgotten your pretty face!
I haven't forgotten your smile and grace!
I haven't forgotten how we started chatting!
I haven't forgotten when we started dating!
I haven't forgotten our last walk together!
I haven't forgotten how I became a loser!
I haven't forgotten how it became too late!
I haven't forgotten when I understood fate!
I haven't forgotten that summer's northwester!
I haven't forgotten and won't forget ever!
poem by Asif Andalib
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Youve Forgotten
Youve been passed around from hand to hand
Cast upon the darkest sands
Now youre so confused that you can hardly stand
Forgotten, youve forgotten now youre on the run
Forgotten, youve forgotten
How to live beneath the sun
How to live beneath the sun
Before you left I thought I knew
That you would always need me too
I never thought someday, that Id be telling you
Youve forgotten, youve forgotten
The things you used to feel
Forgotten, youve forgotten
How to smile for real
How to smile for real
And for the changes you have made
Your beauty was the price you paid
All your dreams rose up and then you watched them fade.
Youve forgotten, youve forgotten
Youve forgotten, youve forgotten
The best is always yet to come
The best is always yet to come
The best is always yet to come
And how to live beneath the sun
song performed by by Jackson Browne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Forgotten Angel I'm Without You
The eyes bleed form the insides
The head collapses on impact
How am I suppose to react
The sweat pours from my forehead
You were thought to be dead
With so much left unsaid
Forgotten angel
Forgotten angel
I'm so sorry
You lied in a comma
Three years pasted
The doctor said you'd never wake
Oh how the heart breaks
Forgotten angel
Forgotten angel
You've missed so much since you supposedly died
I got married
And it wasn't you
Now I feel so blue
Sad
Twisted
Torn
Ripped into a thousand pieces
Let me choke till my breathing ceases
I got a couple nieces
Baby twins
I wonder if I can ever be forgiven
Forgotten angel
Forgotten angel
Oh the mistake I made
But I now got to be brave
I won't allow myself to be torn in two
A get well card will never due
My forgotten angel
Being so brave
My forgotten angel
Learning to talk again
My forgotten angel
Learning to walk again
I will stay away once your okay
So I don't wonder what could have been
I feel like your next of kin
I will pretend we were never together at all
I will always want to answer that phone call
My forgotten angel
I'm sorry
I can't
I moved on without you
Without you
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Wife A-Lost
1 Since I noo mwore do zee your fe{'a}ce,
Up ste{'a}rs or down below,
I'll zit me in the lwonesome ple{'a}ce,
Where flat-bough'd beech do grow;
Below the beeches' bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An' I don't look to meet ye now,
As I do look at hwome.
Since you noo mwore be at my zide,
In walks in zummer het,
I'll goo alwone where mist do ride,
Drough trees a-drippèn wet;
Below the ra{'i}n-wet bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
As I do grieve at hwome.
Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard
Your va{'i}ce do never sound,
I'll eat the bit I can avword,
A-vield upon the ground;
Below the darksome bough, my love,
Where you did never dine,
An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
As I at hwome do pine.
Since I do miss your va{'i}ce an' fe{'a}ce
In pra{'y}er at eventide,
I'll pray wi' woone sad va{'i}ce vor gre{'a}ce
To goo where you do bide;
Above the tree an' bough, my love,
Where you be gone avore,
An' be a-w{'a}itèn vor me now,
To come vor evermwore.
poem by William Barnes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Forgotten, But Not Gone
(johnny macrae/buzz carson)
Her birthday came and went without a card, or a single I love you
On their anniversary she sat all alone at a table set for two
She tries her best to please him, but she never hears one single word of praise
She feels just like a stranger, in a home where love has seen its better days
Well hes taken her for granted
God only knows why she keeps hangin on
cause its better to be gone, but not forgotten
Than to be forgotten, but not gone
Somehow he cant remember, when hes late to even take the time to call
And even on the nights hes there she gets the feeling hes not there at all
Shes become a prisoner in that big old house where sweet love used to be
Well, its not even over but lord she feels just like a memory
Well hes taken her for granted
God only knows why she keeps hangin on
cause its better to be gone, but not forgotten
Than to be forgotten, but not gone
cause its better to be gone, but not forgotten
Gone, but not forgotten
Than to be forgotten, but not gone
song performed by by Gary Allan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Woman's Last Word
I
Let's contend no more, Love,
Strive nor weep:
All be as before, Love,
—Only sleep!
II
What so wild as words are?
I and thou
In debate, as birds are,
Hawk on bough!
III
See the creature stalking
While we speak!
Hush and hide the talking,
Cheek on cheek!
IV
What so false as truth is,
False to thee?
Where the serpent's tooth is
Shun the tree—
V
Where the apple reddens
Never pry—
Lest we lose our Edens,
Eve and I.
VI
Be a god and hold me
With a charm!
Be a man and fold me
With thine arm!
VII
Teach me, only teach, Love
As I ought
I will speak thy speech, Love,
Think thy thought—
VIII
Meet, if thou require it,
Both demands,
Laying flesh and spirit
In thy hands.
IX
That shall be to-morrow
Not to-night:
I must bury sorrow
Out of sight:
X
—Must a little weep, Love,
(Foolish me!)
And so fall asleep, Love,
Loved by thee.
poem by Robert Browning from Men and Women (1855)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Wife A-Lost, The
Since I noo mwore do zee your fe{"a}ce,
Up ste{"a}rs or down below,
I'll zit me in the lwonesome ple{"a}ce,
Where flat-bough'd beech do grow;
Below the beeches' bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An' I don't look to meet ye now,
As I do look at hwome.
Since you noo mwore be at my zide,
In walks in zummer het,
I'll goo alwone where mist do ride,
Drough trees a-drippèn wet;
Below the ra{"i}n-wet bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
As I do grieve at hwome.
Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard
Your va{"i}ce do never sound,
I'll eat the bit I can avword,
A-vield upon the ground;
Below the darksome bough, my love,
Where you did never dine,
An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
As I at hwome do pine.
Since I do miss your va{"i}ce an' fe{"a}ce
In pra{"y}er at eventide,
I'll pray wi' woone sad va{"i}ce vor gre{"a}ce
To goo where you do bide;
Above the tree an' bough, my love,
Where you be gone avore,
An' be a-w{"a}itèn vor me now,
To come vor evermwore.
poem by William Barnes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Gallows
There was a weasel lived in the sun
With all his family,
Till a keeper shot him with his gun
And hung him up on a tree,
Where he swings in the wind and rain,
In the sun and in the snow,
Without pleasure, without pain,
On the dead oak tree bough.
There was a crow who was no sleeper,
But a thief and a murderer
Till a very late hour; and this keeper
Made him one of the things that were,
To hang and flap in rain and wind,
In the sun and in the snow.
There are no more sins to be sinned
On the dead oak tree bough.
There was a magpie, too,
Had a long tongue and a long tail;
He could talk and do -
But what did that avail?
He, too, flaps in the wind and rain
Alongside weasel and crow,
Without pleasue, without pain,
On the dead oak tree bough.
And many other beasts
And birds, skin, bone, and feather,
Have been taken from their feasts
And hung up there together,
To swing and have endless leisure
In the sun and in the snow,
Without pain, without pleasure,
On the dead oak tree bough.
poem by Edward Thomas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Wife A-Lost
Since I noo mwore do zee your feace,
Up steairs or down below,
I'll zit me in the lwonesome pleace,
Where flat-bough'd beech do grow;
Below the beeches' bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An' I don't look to meet ye now,
As I do look at hwome.
Since you noo mwore be at my zide,
In walks in zummer het,
I'll goo alwone where mist do ride,
Drough trees a-drippen wet;
Below the rain-wet bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
As I do grieve at hwome.
Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard
Your vaice do never sound,
I'll eat the bit I can avword,
A-vield upon the ground;
Below the darksome bough, my love,
Where you did never dine,
An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
As I at hwome do pine.
Since I do miss your vaice an' feace
In prayer at eventide,
I'll pray wi' woone sad vaice vor greace
To goo where you do bide;
Above the tree an' bough, my love,
Where you be gone avore,
An' be a-waiten vor me now,
To come vor evermwore.
poem by Ingeborg Bachmann
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Let it be Forgotten
Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten,
Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold.
Let it be forgotten forever and ever,
Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.
If anyone asks, say it was forgotten
Long and long ago,
As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall
In a long-forgotten snow.
poem by Sara Teasdale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hold Hands
lovers have forgotten
how to hold hands...
and children have forgotten
the wonder of being outside.
workers have forgotten
how it feels to be appreciated.
old people have forgotten
how it feels to be needed.
everyday people have forgotten
how it feels to grow their own food.
students have forgotten
the joy of learning...
the American people have forgotten
how it feels to believe...
in equality, dignity, and hope...
how it feels to hold hands!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Woodlark
Teevo cheevo cheevio chee:
O where, what can tháat be?
Weedio-weedio: there again!
So tiny a trickle of sóng-strain;
And all round not to be found
For brier, bough, furrow, or gréen ground
Before or behind or far or at hand
Either left either right
Anywhere in the súnlight.
Well, after all! Ah but hark—
‘I am the little wóodlark.
. . . . . . . .
To-day the sky is two and two
With white strokes and strains of the blue
. . . . . . . .
Round a ring, around a ring
And while I sail (must listen) I sing
. . . . . . . .
The skylark is my cousin and he
Is known to men more than me
. . . . . . . .
…when the cry within
Says Go on then I go on
Till the longing is less and the good gone
But down drop, if it says Stop,
To the all-a-leaf of the tréetop
And after that off the bough
. . . . . . . .
I ám so véry, O soó very glad
That I dó thínk there is not to be had…
. . . . . . . .
The blue wheat-acre is underneath
And the braided ear breaks out of the sheath,
The ear in milk, lush the sash,
And crush-silk poppies aflash,
The blood-gush blade-gash
Flame-rash rudred
Bud shelling or broad-shed
Tatter-tassel-tangled and dingle-a-dangled
Dandy-hung dainty head.
. . . . . . . .
And down … the furrow dry
Sunspurge and oxeye
And laced-leaved lovely
Foam-tuft fumitory
. . . . . . . .
Through the velvety wind V-winged
To the nest’s nook I balance and buoy
With a sweet joy of a sweet joy,
Sweet, of a sweet, of a sweet joy
Of a sweet—a sweet—sweet—joy.’
poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Acorn
An acorn swung
On an oak-tree bough;
So long it had hung,
It would fain fall now
To the kindly earth,
That its germ within
Might burst into birth,
And its life begin.
And the autumn came
With its burning hand,
And each leaf grew a flame,
And each bough a brand.
And a worm came up
And began to eat
Though the hard, dry cup
To the acorn sweet.
And the acorn thought,
“I shall soon see now
The life I have sought,
When I fall from the bough;
For the worm gnaws through
Each tendon slight,
That about me grew,
And bound me tight.”
And with dying day
Came the zephyr’s sound;
And the acorn lay
Next morn on the ground;
But its germ was gone
By the worm’s sharp teeth;
And the ground it had won
Was its grave in death.
poem by Francis William Bourdillon
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Climbing
High up in the apple tree climbing I go,
With the sky above me, the earth below.
Each branch is the step of a wonderful stair
Which leads to the town I see shining up there.
Climbing, climbing, higher and higher,
The branches blow and I see a spire,
The gleam of a turret, the glint of a dome,
All sparkling and bright, like white sea foam.
On and on, from bough to bough,
The leaves are thick, but I push my way through;
Before, I have always had to stop,
But to-day I am sure I shall reach the top.
Today to the end of the marvelous stair,
Where those glittering pinacles flash in the air!
Climbing, climbing, higher I go,
With the sky close above me, the earth far below.
poem by Amy Lowell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lost
Sweet lark! that, bedded in the tangled grass,
Protractest dewy slumbers, wake, arise!
The brightest moments of the morning pass-
Thou shouldst be up, and carolling in the skies.
Go up! go up! and melt into the blue,
And to heaven's veil on wings of song repair;
But, ere thou dost descend to earth, peep through,
And see if She be there.
Sweet stockdove! cooing in the flushing wood,
On one green bough brooding till morn hath died,
Oh, leave the perch where thou too long hast stood,
And with strong wings flutter the leaves aside!
Fly on, fly on, past feathery copse, nor stay
Till thou hast skimmed o'er all the woodlands fair!
And when thou hast, then speeding back thy way,
Tell me if She be there.
Sweet breeze! that, wearied with the heat of noon,
Upon a bank of daffodils didst die,
Oh, if thou lov'st me, quit thy perfumed swoon,
And, all refreshed, hither and thither hie.
Traverse the glades where browse the dappled deer,
Thrid the deep dells where none but thou mayst dare;
And then, sweet breeze, returning, to my ear
Whisper if She be there.
Sweet rivulet! running far too fast to stay,
Yet hear my plaint, e'en as thou rollest on!
I am alone-alone-both night and day,
For she I love was with me, and is gone.
Oh, shouldst thou find her on the golden beach
Whither thou speedest ocean's joys to share,
Remount thy course, despite what sophists teach,
And tell me She is there.
Not there! Nor there! Not in the far-off sky,
Close-keeping woods, or by the shining sea!
When lark, dove, breeze, and rivulet vainly try
To find my sweet-oh, where then may she be?
Hath she then left me-me she vowed so dear,
And she whose shadow dusks all other charms?
O foolish messengers! Look, look! She's here,
Enfolded in my arms!
poem by Alfred Austin
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The Apple Of My Eye
Oh sweet love, thou were the apple of my eye
and now I'm left with why?
All the whys that no answers can bring
are all the ones that ring
inside my brain that cannot understand
why you're not here holding my hand.
Why some have so many years together
and ours were not enough.
Why some seem to stoically accept
and for me it is so tough.
I know what they say. Time wii heal
whatever comes our way.
But for me my love, it can't happen.
I need eternity and a day.
Oh sweet love, always the apple of my eye
they cannot tell me why.
For all the answersthat they give
all seem, ike a lie.
Until my eyes can no longer see
what was to me so sweet,
I cannot ever look at life again
for the whys continue to eat
at my apple.
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Unharvested
A scent of ripeness from over a wall.
And come to leave the routine road
And look for what had made me stall,
There sure enough was an apple tree
That had eased itself of its summer load,
And of all but its trivial foliage free,
Now breathed as light as a lady's fan.
For there had been an apple fall
As complete as the apple had given man.
The ground was one circle of solid red.
May something go always unharvested!
May much stay out of our stated plan,
Apples or something forgotten and left,
So smelling their sweetness would be no theft.
poem by Robert Frost
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Now Is Past
_Now_ is past--the happy _now_
When we together roved
Beneath the wildwood's oak-tree bough
And Nature said we loved.
Winter's blast
The _now_ since then has crept between,
And left us both apart.
Winters that withered all the green
Have froze the beating heart.
Now is past.
_Now_ is past since last we met
Beneath the hazel bough;
Before the evening sun was set
Her shadow stretched below.
Autumn's blast
Has stained and blighted every bough;
Wild strawberries like her lips
Have left the mosses green below,
Her bloom's upon the hips.
Now is past.
_Now_ is past, is changed agen,
The woods and fields are painted new.
Wild strawberries which both gathered then,
None know now where they grew.
The skys oercast.
Wood strawberries faded from wood sides,
Green leaves have all turned yellow;
No Adelaide walks the wood rides,
True love has no bed-fellow.
Now is past.
poem by John Clare
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