En.Citatepedia^®.ro

A Ballad Of The Trees And The Master

Into the woods my Master went,
Clean forspent, forspent.
Into the woods my Master came,
Forspent with love and shame.
But the olives they were not blind to Him,
The little gray leaves were kind to Him:
The thorn-tree had a mind to Him
When into the woods He came.

Out of the woods my Master went,
And He was well content.
Out of the woods my Master came,
Content with death and shame.
When Death and Shame would woo Him last,
From under the trees they drew Him last:
'Twas on a tree they slew Him -- last
When out of the woods He came.

poem by Sidney Lanier
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The Way Through the Woods

They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate.
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few)
You will hear the beat of a horse's feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods. . . .
But there is no road through the woods.

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The lonely woods

In the lonely woods do I roam,
I get a good glimpse of everything,
when I walk through the lonely woods, and a sad song I sing.
I see a pretty bird's wing,
so beautiful, so shiny, like that of a silver ring.
I walk near a small stream,
and when I am tired, I stop near it, sleep and dream.
All around me is silence, there is no hatred and there is no violence.
this is what I like in the woods, the lonely woods,
so silent, so calm,
to me, the trees, and the animals, there is no harm,
this is the lonely woods.

poem by Savio Vogt
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The Woods

My sorrow lives in the woods.
I cannot complain to anyone.
I must bear it to the woods
in the deepest loneliness.

If ever in future times
someone comes for that reason
he can find in the woods
the shy sorrow of my heart.

When he sees far off in the woods,
alone and quiet,
the deepest shadows lying,
that is my somber sorrow

poem by James Comerford
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The Lonely Woods

in the lonely woods i'm lost
surrounded by shards of frost
is there a path i haven't crossed?
no. yet in the lonely woods i'm lost

in the lonely woods at night
trapped and locked up in deep fright
no movement, no heat and no light
just the sound of my breath in the lonely

woods

poem by Jonathan Fabianski
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The Green Woods Of Truagh

In the green woods of Truagh we met without fear,
Your kiss on my lips, and your voice in my ear,
Your tender arms about me, and your eyes glad and clear–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!

In the green woods of Truagh the days go on wings,
On every brown branch a gladsome bird sings
And the fragrant amber blossom of the honey-suckle swings–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!

In the green woods of Truagh the bracken stands high,
And wells of spring-water in deep hollows lie,
And the red deer is browsing in the cool shadows nigh–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!

In the green woods of Truagh no sorrow dared stay,
The lark called me early at dawn o' the day,
And o'er my sleep at night pleasant dreams used to play–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!

In the green woods of Truagh you wait till I come–
I left home and you for the stranger's far home,
To bring a hoard of yellow gold across the grey foam–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!

In the green woods of Truagh–if God hears my prayer–
I shall reach you, O true love, my empty hands there,
For little of the yellow gold has fallen to my share–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!

In the green woods of Truagh–your heart on my own,
And your bright hair in ringlets across my cheek blown
Now where in all the wide, wide world, could greater bliss be known?
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!

poem by Anna Johnston MacManus
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The Fight Goes On The Fight Must Never End

The woman conservationists admire
She fights to save the trees of Sherbrooke Shire
A staunch member of the 'Save The Dandenongs Team'
The fight is on to keep the mountain green.

To woods and all green places she's a friend
And the fight goes on the fight must never end
The verbal war the unending war of words
To save the woods and hedgerows for the birds.

The fight is on to save the greenery
To save green places and each precious tree
For future generations to enjoy
The fight goes on and the heated words still fly.

The developer say we'll cut the forest down
And replace the scrubland with a concrete town
But the conservationists keep getting in their way
The woods were always here and the woods will stay.

And the Margaret Douglas's of this world too rare
And the developers too many everywhere
To woods and all green places she's a friend
And the fight goes on the fight must never end.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.

Robert Frost in Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

poem by Robert Frost
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Under Moonshine

The dawn crept into by room
And stole my dream
Now Ill never know
Just what it means
Or what could have been
Yet still I try to lie
But Im seen
Under moonshine thats where Ive been
Under moonshine Im clearly seen
Under moonshine thats where Ive been
Under moonshine Im clearly seen
Creator of dreams that melt with the sun
Ill send you the things this man has done
He was a saint and a sinner rolled in one
But I miss now that hes gone
I sure miss him now that hes gone
Sure I feel the pain
Deep inside I pour like rain
Remember when you smile
Loves in your eyes
The world keeps turning
The grass still grows green
The fruit on my tree
Is the biggest youve ever seen
Which way up you know when youre down
Theyve gotta stand tall
With your feet on the ground
You must stand tall
With your feet on the ground
Or maybe Im crazy
Also they say Im lazy
But Ill have my days
When I do as I please
For you wont see the woods
While youre a tree
No youll never see the woods
While youre a tree
Yes Im crazy
Also they say Im lazy
But Ill have my days
When I do as I please
You wont see the woods
While youre a tree
No youll never see the woods
While youre a tree

song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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While the woods were green

WHILE the woods were green,
'Oh I' she sang, 'my heart is new,
Leaping, longing, in my breast:
Let him come that loves me true,
Let him come that I love best,
I will tell him what I mean,
Now the wood-birds tell it too,
Now the woods are green.'

While the woods were bare,
'Oh I' she sighed, 'my heart is grey,
Shrinking, shivering, in my breast:
Love me, hate me, as they may,
None of them do I love best:
Let me be alone with care,
Now the wood-birds hide away,
Now the woods are bare.'

poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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The Song of the Oak

The Druids waved their golden knives
And danced around the Oak
When they had sacrificed a man;
But though the learned search and scan
No single modern person can
Entirely see the joke.
But though they cut the throats of men
They cut not down the tree,
And from the blood the saplings spring
Of oak-woods yet to be.
But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,
He rots the tree as ivy would,
He clings and crawls as ivy would
About the sacred tree.

King Charles he fled from Worcester fight
And hid him in the Oak;
In convent schools no man of tact
Would trace and praise his every act,
Or argue that he was in fact
A strict and sainted bloke.
But not by him the sacred woods
Have lost their fancies free,
And though he was extremely big
He did not break the tree.
But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,
He breaks the tree as ivy would,
And eats the woods as ivy would
Between us and the sea.

Great Collingwood walked down the glade
And flung the acorns free,
That oaks might still be in the grove
As oaken as the beams above,
When the great Lover sailors love
Was kissed by Death at aea.
But though for him the oak-trees fell
To build the oaken ships,
The woodman worshipped what he smote
And honoured even the chips.
But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,
He hates the tree as ivy would,
As the dragon of the ivy would
That has us in his grips.

poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Song of the Oak

The Druids waved their golden knives
And danced around the Oak
When they had sacrificed a man;
But though the learned search and scan
No single modern person can
Entirely see the joke.
But though they cut the throats of men
They cut not down the tree,
And from the blood the saplings spring
Of oak-woods yet to be.
But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,
He rots the tree as ivy would,
He clings and crawls as ivy would
About the sacred tree.

King Charles he fled from Worcester fight
And hid him in the Oak;
In convent schools no man of tact
Would trace and praise his every act,
Or argue that he was in fact
A strict and sainted bloke.
But not by him the sacred woods
Have lost their fancies free,
And though he was extremely big
He did not break the tree.
But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,
He breaks the tree as ivy would,
And eats the woods as ivy would
Between us and the sea.

Great Collingwood walked down the glade
And flung the acorns free,
That oaks might still be in the grove
As oaken as the beams above,
When the great Lover sailors love
Was kissed by Death at sea.
But though for him the oak-trees fell
To build the oaken ships,
The woodman worshipped what he smote
And honoured even the chips.
But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,
He hates the tree as ivy would,
As the dragon of the ivy would
That has us in his grips.

poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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Love and Black Magic

To the woods, to the woods is the wizard gone;
In his grotto the maiden sits alone.
She gazes up with a weary smile
At the rafter-hanging crocodile,
The slowly swinging crocodile.
Scorn has she of her master’s gear,
Cauldron, alembic, crystal sphere,
Phial, philtre—“Fiddlededee
For all such trumpery trash!” quo’ she.
“A soldier is the lad for me;
Hey and hither, my lad!

“Oh, here have I ever lain forlorn:
My father died ere I was born,
Mother was by a wizard wed,
And oft I wish I had died instead—
Often I wish I were long time dead.
But, delving deep in my master’s lore,
I have won of magic power such store
I can turn a skull—oh, fiddlededee
For all this curious craft!” quo’ she.
“A soldier is the lad for me;
Hey and hither, my lad!

“To bring my brave boy unto my arms,
What need have I of magic charms—
‘Abracadabra!’ and ‘Prestopuff’?
I have but to wish, and that is enough.
The charms are vain, one wish is enough.
My master pledged my hand to a wizard;
Transformed would I be to toad or lizard
If e’er he guessed—but fiddlededee
For a black-browed sorcerer, now,” quo’ she.
“Let Cupid smile and the fiend must flee;
Hey and hither, my lad.”

poem by Robert Graves
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I robbed the Woods

41

I robbed the Woods—
The trusting Woods.
The unsuspecting Trees
Brought out their Burs and mosses
My fantasy to please.
I scanned their trinkets curious—I grasped—I bore away—
What will the solemn Hemlock—
What will the Oak tree say?

poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Flowers

All the names I know from nurse:
Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse,
Bachelor's buttons, Lady's smock,
And the Lady Hollyhock.

Fairy places, fairy things,
Fairy woods where the wild bee wings,
Tiny trees for tiny dames--
These must all be fairy names!

Tiny woods below whose boughs
Shady fairies weave a house;
Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme,
Where the braver fairies climb!

Fair are grown-up people's trees,
But the fairest woods are these;
Where, if I were not so tall,
I should live for good and all.

poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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IT's THE GOLF BALL OR ME

TIGER TIGER IN THE WOODS

Hit the ball as U should

Ere the Golf Stick skidded

And U in the Woods ended

Tiger Tiger your fame spread far and wide

Many a wallop in joy you with your family cried

Alas your 'misses' your family dread

And many a tear dropp you dead

Tiger Tiger in the Woods the time has come

When Your Wife has given you ultimatum

It's either me or GOLF you choose

And mend your ways or both your loose

'On my terms' if U want the kids and me

Coz I love you so much honey

I am not to touch the GOLF BALL

NOT for LOVE or for MONEY....

TIGER TIGER IN THE WOODS.

poem by Intensive KS1
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Woodsman

A man of the woods carries his belongings
To a hut, where he proclaims a message
To his family, and restores himself with comfort.

The family knows he is not just a forester,
Underneath the leaves is a buried soul, he says,
One of the poor souls.

The forester never forgets the trees,
He, indeed, is a being with the woods,
Cutting down trees even in his spare time.

The family despises this lonely man of the forest,
The denial of human life is utterly obnoxious,
Life is precious, even all of nature cherishes it.

One day, this man of the woods described himself
In his world of timber, and laid his hands on his sons,
Teaching them not to take another soul just as he did.

poem by Naveed Akram
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Gortnamona

Long, long ago in the woods of Gortnamona,
I thought the birds were singing in the blackthorn tree;
But oh, it was my heart that was ringing, ringing, ringing,
With the joy that you were bringing, oh my love, to me

Long, long ago in the woods of Gortnamona,
I thought the wind was sighing round the blackthorn tree;
But oh, it was the banshee that was crying, crying, crying,
And I knew my love was dying far across the sea.

Now if you go through the woods of Gortnamona,
You hear the raindrops creeping through the blackthorn tree;
But oh, it is the tears I am weeping, weeping, weeping,
For the loved one that is sleeping far away from me.

poem by William Percy French
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Cuckoo!

In woods so long time bare
Cuckoo!
Up and in the wood, I know not where
Two notes fall.
Yet I do not envy him at all
His phantasy.
Cuckoo!
I too,
Somewhere,
I have sung as merrily as he
Who can dare,
Small and careless love, so to laugh at care,
And who
Can call
Cuckoo!
In woods of winter weary,
In scented woods, of winter weary, call
Cuckoo!
In woods so long time bare.

poem by Hilaire Belloc
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Whose Words These Are Only God Knows

WHOSE WOODS THESE ARE ONLY GOD KNOWS

Whose woods these are only God knows
Sparse and bare the trees
A pleasant morning in the hottest time of the year-

My task here is no more-

The man I took care of for one year and one half is in his grave
His kind and good wife said goodbye
With a gift for my daughter and her child
And a compensation check for me.

What Promises are there for me to keep now?
In these last years
Before I too fade and die?

The woods are light and small
And the Developers will soon be here-

I look up out at the Hill of the Holy city
A soft calm wind blows-
Never have I been so still inside-
And miles to go before I sleep?
The City sad and light and deep.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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