In The Forest
HERE, O my heart, let us burn the dear dreams that are dead,
Here in this wood let us fashion a funeral pyre
Of fallen white petals and leaves that are mellow and red,
Here let us burn them in noon's flaming torches of fire.
We are weary, my heart, we are weary, so long we have borne
The heavy loved burden of dreams that are dead, let us rest,
Let us scatter their ashes away, for a while let us mourn;
We will rest, O my heart, till the shadows are gray in the west.
But soon we must rise, O my heart, we must wander again
Into the war of the world and the strife of the throng;
Let us rise, O my heart, let us gather the dreams that remain,
We will conquer the sorrow of life with the sorrow of song.
poem by Sarojini Naidu
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Related quotes
The Way To God's Heart
God's heart is the seed of gloom
There he's springs and his love loom
Sorrow is the path one weary boy trods
To heaven's heart, the heart of God's
The weary boy wallows in sorrows past
Till God's heart he reaches at very last
In sorrow the weary boy does vent
To God's heart where his sins repent.
With sorrow God sews him to his breast
In his heart's palm his sorrows lay rest
To know sorrow is to understand
And live in truth of God's heartland
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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The Camp Within the West
O DID you see a troop go by
Way-weary and oppressed,
Dead kisses on the drooping lip
And a dead heart in the breast?
Yea, I have seen them one by one
Way-weary and oppressed,
And when I asked them, ‘Whither speed?’
They answered, ‘To the West!’
And were they pale as pale could be—
Death-pale with haunted eyes,
And did you see the hot white dust
Range round their feet and rise?
Oh, they were pale as pale could be,
And pale as an embered leaf;
The hot white dust had risen, but
They laid it with their grief.
Did no one say the way is long,
And crave a little rest?
Oh no, they said, ‘The night is nigh,
Our camp is in the West!’
And did pain pierce their feet, as though
The way with thorns were set,
And were they visited by strange
Dark angels of regret?
Oh yea, and some were mute as death,
Though shot by many a dart,
With them the salt of inward tears
Went stinging through the heart.
And how are these wayfarers called,
And whither do they wend?
The Weary-Hearted—and their road
At sunset hath and end.
Shed tears for them…Nay, nay, no tears!
They yearn for endless rest;
Perhaps large stars will burn above
Their camp within the West.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Love's Old Sweet Song
Once in the dear dead days beyond recall,
When on the world the mists began to fall,
Out of the dreams that rose in happy throng
Low to our hearts Love sung an old sweet song;
And in the dusk where fell the firelight gleam,
Softly it wove itself into our dream.
Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low,
And the flick'ring shadows softly come and go,
Tho' the heart be weary, sad the day and long,
Still to us at twilight comes Love's old song,
Comes Love's old sweet song.
Even today we hear Love's song of yore,
Deep in our hearts it dwells for evermore
Footsteps may falter, weary grow the way,
Still we can hear it at the close of day,
So till the end, when life's dim shadows fall,
Love will be found the sweetest song of all.
Just a song at twilight, when the lights are low,
And the flick'ring shadows softly come and go,
Tho' the heart be weary, sad the day and long,
Still to us at twilight comes Love's old song,
Comes Love's old sweet song.
poem by Clifton Bingham
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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O, water, voice of my heart...
O water, voice of my heart, crying in the sand,
All night long crying with a mournful cry,
As I lie and listen, and cannot understand
The voice of my heart in my side or the voice of the sea,
O water, crying for rest, is it I, is it I?
All night long the water is crying to me.
Unresting water, there shall never be rest
Till the last moon droop and the last tide fail,
And the fire of the end begin to burn in the west;
And the heart shall be weary and wonder and cry like the sea,
All life long crying without avail,
As the water all night long is crying to me.
poem by Arthur Symons
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New Year's Night, 1916
The Earth moans in her sleep
Like an old mother
Whose sons have gone to the war,
Who weeps silently in her heart
Till dreams comfort her.
The Earth tosses
As if she would shake off humanity,
A burden too heavy to be borne,
And free of the pest of intolerable men,
Spin with woods and waters
Joyously in the clear heavens
In the beautiful cool rains,
Bearing gladly the dumb animals,
And sleep when the time comes
Glistening in the remains of sunlight
With marmoreal innocency.
Be comforted, old mother,
Whose sons have gone to the war;
And be assured, O Earth,
Of your burden of passionate men,
For without them who would dream the dreams
That encompass you with glory,
Who would gather your youth
And store it in the jar of remembrance,
Who would comfort your old heart
With tales told of the heroes,
Who would cover your face with the cerecloth
All rustling with stars,
And mourn in the ashes of sunlight,
Mourn your marmoreal innocency?
poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
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For the heart, from the heart
For the heart, from the heart
The treasure heart you keep inside
That keeps my dreams away from harm
Touches my life in every way
And seeds of love revives my heart
The fire that burns inside my mind
Incinerates the deadly fears
Your sound and voice depletes my sins
Your warm melody feeds no stop
For the heart, from the heart
Every heart that beats a day
The shadow path removed to be
And hear my tongue that says no lie
Say my prayers as lullabies
For the heart, from the heart
I fell and kept my knees on ground
You came into my life and lived
And helped me rise from burden's toes
Kissed my lips in eternity
For the heart, from the heart
poem by Kestrel Quiambao
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Hero's Return
In a time of fear and confusion,
silence charging the air
The sunlight is gone, darkness lives on
in the heart of the dragons lair
Lost in a world of illusions
No trace of the missing ore
Stealing our souls, were out of control,
knocking at deaths door
All our beliefs fading into ashes
Heed the words that we pray
For a Heros Return our hearts still yearn
Rise and conquer, let the infidels burn
Now we charge, the battle is raging,
blood runs everywhere
Our anger is fierce, avenging the years
No time for a final prayer
Behold, the might of the hammer,
elliptical bolts of fire
Theres nowhere to run, nowhere to hide
Youre down to the wire
Somewhere out there lies a new tomorrow
for me and those who believe
For a Heros Return our hearts still yearn
Rise and conquer, let the infidels burn
For a Heros Return our hearts still yearn
Rise and conquer, let the infidels burn
Oooh
Now, Ive returned from a place far beyond
My mission I set, let it be done
We still belive in a brighter future
The dreams are ours to fulfil
For a Heros Return.
song performed by by Hammerfall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fifty Years Apart
They sit in the winter gloaming,
And the fire burns bright between;
One has passed seventy summers,
And the other just seventeen.
They rest in a happy silence
As the shadows deepen fast;
One lives in a coming future,
And one in a long, long past.
Each dreams of a rush of music,
And a question whispered low;
One will hear it this evening,
One heard it long ago.
Each dreams of a loving husband
Whose brave heart is hers alone;
For one the joy is coming,
For one the joy has flown.
Each dreams of a life of gladness
Spent under the sunny skies;
And both the hope and the memory
Shine in the happy eyes.
Who knows which dream is the brightest?
And who knows which is the best?
The sorrow and joy are mingled,
But only the end is rest.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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When Evening Shadows Fall
When evening shadows fall,
She hangs her cares away
Like empty garments on the wall
That hides her from the day;
And while old memories throng,
And vanished voices call,
She lifts her grateful heart in song
When evening shadows fall.
Her weary hands forget
The burdens of the day.
The weight of sorrow and regret
In music rolls away;
And from the day's dull tomb,
That holds her in its thrall,
Her soul springs up in lily bloom
When evening shadows fall.
O weary heart and hand,
Go bravely to the strife--
No victory is half so grand
As that which conquers life!
One day shall yet be thine--
The day that waits for all
Whose prayerful eyes are things divine
When evening shadows fall.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Weary
WEARY of the ceaseless war
Beating down the baffled soul,—
Thoughts that like a scimitar
Smite us fainting at the goal.
Weary of the joys that pain—
Dead sea fruits whose ashes fall,
Drying up the summer’s rain—
Charnel dust in cups of gall!
Weary of the hopes that fail,
Leading from the narrow way,
Tempting strength to actions frail—
Hand to err, and foot to stray.
Weary of the battling throng,
False and true in mingled fight;
Weary of the wail of wrong,
And the yearning for the night!
Weary, weary, weary Heart!
Lacerated, crush’d and dumb.
None to know thee as thou art!
When will rest unbroken come?
poem by Sir Henry Parkes
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To Some I Have Talked With By The Fire
WHILE I wrought out these fitful Danaan rhymes,
My heart would brim with dreams about the times
When we bent down above the fading coals
And talked of the dark folk who live in souls
Of passionate men, like bats in the dead trees;
And of the wayward twilight companies
Who sigh with mingled sorrow and content,
Because their blossoming dreams have never bent
Under the fruit of evil and of good:
And of the embattled flaming multitude
Who rise, wing above wing, flame above flame,
And, like a storm, cry the Ineffable Name,
And with the clashing of their sword-blades make
A rapturous music, till the morning break
And the white hush end all but the loud beat
Of their long wings, the flash of their white feet.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Sonnet 14
Are these wild thoughts, thus fettered in my rhymes,
Indeed the product of my heart and brain?
How strange that on my ear the rhythmic strain
Falls like faint memories of far-off times!
When did I feel the sorrow, act the part,
Which I have striv'n to shadow forth in song?
In what dead century swept that mingled throng
Of mighty pains and pleasures through my heart?
Not in the yesterdays of that still life
Which I have passed so free and far from strife,
But somewhere in this weary world I know,
In some strange land, beneath some orient clime,
I saw or shared a martyrdom sublime,
And felt a deeper grief than any later woe.
poem by Henry Timrod
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Dreams And Ghosts
the dreams
of the heart
the dreams
of the mind
change and pass
with time
throughout the span
of a lifetime
many dreams
will come and go
but some dream
like childhood
quality must be
kept and preserved
from childhood
for this is perpetual
renewal of creativity
this deep solace
sustains aspiring soul
with hope filled
love renewing life
with new dreams
to inspire to grasp
to share eternally
the hard hearted
are played out
lost broken upon
twisted memories
dreams long dead
life expired withered
dead to deep feeling
which sustains life
the dead of heart
live only in shadows
of yesterday’s hope
ghost haunting
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Best
I call you,when I need you my hearts on fire
You come to me, come to me, wild and wild
You come to me, give me everything I need
Give me a lifetime of promises and a world of dreams
Speak the language of love like you know what it means
And it cant be wrong, take my heart and make it strong, baby
Chorus:
Youre simply the best, better than all the rest, better than anyone, anyone
Ive ever met!
Im stuck on your heart, I hang on every word you say
Tear us apart, baby I would rather be dead
In your heart I see the start of every night and every day
In your eyes, I get lost, I gte washed away
Just as long as Im here in your arms I could be in no better place...
Chorus:
Youre simply the best, better than all the rest, better than anyone, anyone
Ive ever met!
Im stuck on your heart, I hang on every word you say
Tear us apart, baby I would rather be dead
Its the time you leave me I start losing control, youre walking away with my
Heart and my soul, I can feel you even when Im alone, oh baby dont let go!
And your the best, better than all the rest, better than anyone, anyone ive
Ever met!
Im stuck on your heart, I hang on every word you say
Tear us apart, baby I would rather be dead, ooh youre the best!
song performed by by Tina Turner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Oh, Heart
Oh heart, oh heart, why must you beat?
Oh heart, oh heart, why must you weap?
Oh heart, oh heart, why must you hide?
Oh heart, oh heart, what lies inside?
Oh heart, oh heart, why must you cry?
Oh heart, oh heart, why do you despise?
Oh heart, oh heart, why are you weak?
Oh heart, oh heart, why can't you speak?
Oh heart, oh heart, why must you burn?
Oh heart, oh heart, why can't you learn?
Oh heart, oh heart, what went wrong?
Oh, heart, oh heart, can't you be strong?
Oh heart, oh heart, why are you blue?
Oh heart, oh heart, where are you?
poem by Whitney Albright
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Autumn Song
Like a joy on the heart of a sorrow,
The sunset hangs on a cloud;
A golden storm of glittering sheaves,
Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves,
The wild wind blows in a cloud.
Hark to a voice that is calling
To my heart in the voice of the wind:
My heart is weary and sad and alone,
For its dreams like the fluttering leaves have gone,
And why should I stay behind?
poem by Sarojini Naidu
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Fortuna
The wind blows east, the wind blows west,
And the frost falls and the rain:
A weary heart went thankful to rest,
And must rise to toil again, 'gain,
And must rise to toil again.
The wind blows east, the wind blows west,
And there comes good luck and bad;
The thriftiest man is the cheerfulest;
'Tis a thriftless thing to be sad, sad,
'Tis a thriftless thing to be sad.
The wind blows east, the wind blows west;
Ye shall know a tree by its fruit:
This world, they say, is worst to the best; --
But a dastard has evil to boot, boot,
But a dastard has evil to boot.
The wind blows east, the wind blows west;
What skills it to mourn or to talk?
A journey I have, and far ere I rest;
I must bundle my wallets and walk, walk,
I must bundle my wallets and walk.
The wind does blow as it lists alway;
Canst thou change this world to thy mind?
The world will wander its own wise way;
I also will wander mine, mine,
I also will wander mine.
poem by Thomas Carlyle
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Dedication. To my mother
The flowers of romance that I cherished,
Around me lie withered and dead;
The stars of my youth's shining heaven,
Were but meteors whose brightness misled;
And the day-dreams of life's vernal morning,
Like the mists of the morning have fled.
But one flower I have found still unwithered;
Like the night-scented jasmin it gleams;
And beyond where the fallen stars vanished,
One light pure and hallowed still beams;
One love I have found, deep and changeless,
As that I have yearned for in dreams.
Too often the links have been broken,
That bound me in friendship's bright chain;
Too often has fancy deceived me
To blind or to charm me again;
And I sigh o'er my young heart's illusions,
With a sorrow I would were disdain.
But now, as the clouds return earthward,
From the cold and void ether above;
As on pinions all drooping and weary,
O'er the waste flew the wandering dove;
O'er the tide of the world's troubled waters,
I return to the ark of thy love.
Here, at length, my tired spirit reposes;
Here my heart's strongest tendrils entwine;
Here its warmest and deepest affections
It lays on earth's holiest shrine:
Dearest mother, receive the devotion
Of the life thou hast given from thine.
Here, pressed to thy bosom, the tempests
That sweep over life's stormy sea,
Have beat, in their impotent fury,---
They were winged with no terror for me;
If I shrank from the fearful encounter,
If I trembled---it was but for thee.
The spirit of Song that lies buried
In silence or sleep in the breast,
Unlike the wild music of Memnon,
Is charmed by the sunshine to rest;
In the clash of contending emotions
Are its harmonies only expressed.
When, at moments, my soul has been shaken,
In the strife with the world's rushing throng;
Or moved by some holier impulse,
As borne by its current along;
This spirit aroused, has responded,
And uttered these fragments of song.
I know they are but passing echoes,
For which time has no place and no name;
But hereafter, in loftier numbers,
Might I seek for the guerdon of fame---
Might I gather its evergreen laurels---
I would twine them around thy loved name.
But I mark now a pallor that deepens,
And spreads o'er thy brow and thy cheek;
And, filled with a fearful foreboding,
My strong heart grows nerveless and weak;
And shrinks back appalled from the anguish,
The blow beneath which it would break.
Oh, leave me not yet, gentle spirit,
Though our loved and our lost, gone before,
In the Better Land watch for thy coming,
And call thee away to that shore;
These clasped arms are strong to detain thee---
Leave, leave me not yet, I implore!
Oh God! let this cup but pass from me,
When thy bitterest draught would be thrown;
Not yet those sweet ties rend asunder
Heart with heart, life with life that have grown!
Not yet can I bear life's great burden,
And tread its dark wine-press alone.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Wayward Wolf and Winter Owl
The wayward wolf howls to the misty moon,
His heart filled with sorrow,
That he spills into dead of night,
And echoes into silence of another cry,
Never stopping to let his weary feet rest,
Intensifying his cry.
The winter owl soars below the hollow moon,
Singing its sad tune,
Into sight as it sings and sighs,
Catching the sight of a wayward weary eye,
Together they meet and greet the rising of the dreary moon,
Filling their songs with the tune of the morrow,
Blending their hearts and souls in the tune of the morning’s morrow.
‘Till the moon doth rise again
poem by Talia Anziliero
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Sing To Me
Sing to me! Something of sunlight and bloom,
I am so compassed with sorrow and gloom,
I am so sick with the world’s noisse and strife, -
Sing of the beauty and brightness of life –
Sing to me, sing to me!
Sing to me! Something that’s jubilant, glad!
I am so weary, my soul so sad.
All my earth riches are covered with rust,
All my bright dreams are but ashes and dust.
Sing to me, sing to me!
Sing og the blossoms that open in spring,
How the sweet flowers blow, and the long lichens cling,
Say, though the winter is round about me,
There are bright summers and springs yet to be.
Sing to me, sing to me!
Sing me a song full of hope and of truth,
Brimming with all the sweet fancies of youth!
Say, though my sorrow I may not forget,
I have not quite done with happiness yet.
Sing to me, sing to me!
Lay your soft fingers just here, on my cheek;
Turn the light lower – there- no, do not speak,
But sing! My heart thrills at your beautiful voice;
Sing till I turn from my grief and rejoice.
Sing to me, sing to me!
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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