En.Citatepedia^®.ro

To A Friend Who Sent Me A Box Of Violets

Nay, more than violets
These thoughts of thine, friend!
Rather thy reedy brook--
Taw's tributary--
At midnight murmuring,
Descried them, the delicate
Dark-eyed goddesses,
There by his cressy bed
Dissolved and dreaming
Dreams that distilled into dew
All the purple of night,
All the shine of a planet.

Whereat he whispered;
And they arising--

Of day's forget-me-nots
The duskier sisters--
Descended, relinquished
The orchard, the trout-pool,
Torridge and Tamar,
The Druid circles,
Sheepfolds of Dartmoor,
Granite and sandstone;
By Roughtor, Dozmare,
Down the vale of the Fowey
Moving in silence,
Brushing the nightshade
By bridges cyclopean,
By Trevenna, Treverbyn,
Lawharne and Largin,
By Glynn, Lanhydrock,
Restormel, Lostwithiel,
Dark wood, dim water, dreaming town;
Down the vale of the Fowey
To the tidal water
Washing the feet
Of fair St Winnow--
Each, in her exile
Musing the message,
Passed, as the starlit
Shadow of Ruth from the land of the Moabite.

So they came,
Valley-born, valley-nurtured--
Came to the tideway
The jetties, the anchorage,
The salt wind piping,
Snoring in Equinox,
By ships at anchor,
By quays tormented,
Storm-bitten streets;
Came to the Haven
Crying, 'Ah, shelter us,
The strayed ambassadors,
Love's lost legation
On a comfortless coast!'

Nay, but a little sleep,
A little folding
Of petals to the lull
Of quiet rainfalls--
Here in my garden,
In angle sheltered
From north and east wind--
Softly shall recreate
The courage of charity,
Henceforth not to me only
Breathing the message.

Clean-breath'd Sirens!
Hencefore the mariner.

poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
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Tor House

If you should look for this place after a handful
of lifetimes:
Perhaps of my planted forest a few
May stand yet, dark-leaved Australians or the coast
cypress, haggard
With storm-drift; but fire and the axe are devils.
Look for foundations of sea-worn granite, my fingers
had the art
To make stone love stone, you will find some remnant.
But if you should look in your idleness after ten
thousand years:
It is the granite knoll on the granite
And lava tongue in the midst of the bay, by the mouth
of the Carmel
River-valley, these four will remain
In the change of names. You will know it by the wild
sea-fragrance of wind
Though the ocean may have climbed or retired a little;
You will know it by the valley inland that our sun
and our moon were born from
Before the poles changed; and Orion in December
Evenings was strung in the throat of the valley like
a lamp-lighted bridge.
Come in the morning you will see white gulls
Weaving a dance over blue water, the wane of the moon
Their dance-companion, a ghost walking
By daylight, but wider and whiter than any bird in
the world.
My ghost you needn't look for; it is probably
Here, but a dark one, deep in the granite, not
dancing on wind
With the mad wings and the day moon.

Submitted by Holt

poem by Robinson Jeffers
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The Forest Pool

LOST amid gloom and solitude,
A pool lies hidden in the wood,
A pool the autumn rain has made
Where flowers with their fair shadows played.

Bare as a beggar's board, the trees
Stand in the water to their knees;
The birds are mute, but far away
I hear a bloodhound's sullen bay.

Blue-eyed forget-me-nots that shook,
Kissed by a little laughing brook,
Kissed too by you with lips so red,
Float in the water drowned and dead.

And dead and drowned 'mid leaves that rot,
Our angel-eyed Forget-me-not,
The love of unforgotten years,
Floats corpse-like in a pool of tears

poem by Mathilde Blind
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Flowers of Horror

People who love flowers
Cannot be bad
Says the proverb.

But take the insight
With a grain of salt
For malignant hands
Can turn flowers
Into graceless means
Of lies and deception.

During World War II
The National Socialists
Perfected the dark art
Of deceit by exploiting
The beauty of nature
To disguise and shroud
Their fiendish goals
Of ruin and destruction.

The skies darkened then
Even in the sunshine
Violets trembled
And forget-me-nots
Whispered worries
Wobbling in the wind.

Sixty km north of Prague
A barbed wire fence
Above the camp gate
Of Terezin, the sign said:
Arbeit macht frei.

Here the Nazis set up
The model ghetto
Theresienstadt where
Work made the inmates
Free and they could plant
Colourful flowers.

Buds of starvation
Blossoms of death.

Do not worry
The daffodils said.
This is a friendly place
The hyacinths sighed.
Do not revolt
The roses rustled.

Yet the daisies shuddered
And forget-me-nots
Whispered worries
Wobbling in the wind.

On the roads of Galicia
Between Lublin and Lvov
In east Poland behind
The barbed wire fences
Of Belzec geranium pots
Lined the path
To the gas chambers.

Buds of starvation
Blossoms of death.

The skies darkened then
Even in the sunshine
Violets trembled
And forget-me-nots
Whispered worries
Wobbling in the wind.

poem by Paul Hartal
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Drowning Ophelia

The water seeps up, up
(lapping, licking, soothing)
twisting around the parts of
your body that you have
come to know and hate
because this is the body
that the world abandoned

The water is soothing
the water is deep
lay down your heavy head
close yours eyes and sleep
(thick, dreaming, dark)
sweet, bright little lamb
so alone, so lost in Hell

The water circles your neck
clothing you in elegant dress
your mouth was once dust
your body made of bugs
now water floods your lungs
(silk against burlap)
you feel clean and pure and done

This is how you drown
legs twisted and still
hands thrust out into the chill
letting the water, clean and cold
(sweet, inky, dark, deep)
take your tired, finished mind
and dance it down to sleep

poem by Elizabeth Rebel
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Dreaming Again

Like the water running
Washing away every stone on its way
I find myself dreaming again
Dreaming …of this infinity love.

Undying moments of ecstasy
Flowing thru my veins
Boiling my heart with your warmth

Like the water running
I catch myself dreaming again
Dreaming of this platonic moment
To last thru eternity

Unforgettable thoughts
Trespassing thru my soul

Like the water running
One day our love
Will rise again

I find myself dreaming again
A promise that this love
Will never end!

poem by Jade da Rocha
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The Boy And The Brook. (Armenian Popular Song, From The Prose Version Of Alishan)

Down from yon distant mountain height
The brooklet flows through the village street;
A boy comes forth to wash his hands,
Washing, yes washing, there he stands,
In the water cool and sweet.

Brook, from what mountain dost thou come,
O my brooklet cool and sweet!
I come from yon mountain high and cold,
Where lieth the new snow on the old,
And melts in the summer heat.

Brook, to what river dost thou go?
O my brooklet cool and sweet!
I go to the river there below
Where in bunches the violets grow,
And sun and shadow meet.

Brook, to what garden dost thou go?
O my brooklet cool and sweet!
I go to the garden in the vale
Where all night long the nightingale
Her love-song doth repeat.

Brook, to what fountain dost thou go?
O my brooklet cool and sweet!
I go to the fountain at whose brink
The maid that loves thee comes to drink,
And whenever she looks therein,
I rise to meet her, and kiss her chin,
And my joy is then complete.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Fish And Shadow

The salmon-trout drifts in the stream,
The soul of the salmon-trout floats over the stream
Like a little wafer of light.

The salmon moves in the sun-shot, bright shallow sea. . . .

As light as the shadow of the fish
that falls through the water,
She came into the large room by the stair,
Yawning a little she came with the sleep still upon her.

'I am just from bed. The sleep is still in my eyes.
'Come. I have had a long dream.'
And I: That wood?
'And two springs have passed us.'
'Not so far, no, not so far now,
There is a place but no one else knows it
A field in a valley . . .
Qu'ieu sui avinen,
Ieu lo sai,'

She must speak of the time
Of Arnaut de Mareuil, I thought, 'qu'ieu sui avinen.’

Light as the shadow of the fish
That falls through the pale green water.

poem by Ezra Pound
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His Last Breath! ! !

Have mercy Lord!
help me in unlearning thoughts,
weary, injured, bleeding thoughts!
I can't forget that painful time,
that horrid sight,
that silent, solemn, moonless night,
when mind was full of unknown fears,
shaky hopes, and wishful prayers...

Have mercy God!
can I forget
those passing moments
when he was counting his noble,
worthy, lively breaths-
those lively breaths
which were losing by and by
the warmth of life.

Then passed the time
and passed the night
there came at last his last breath…
with the birth of the day
a Sun was dying
to rise again
in a blind vale,
the valley of the pious souls…
since then O Lord,
my eyes are probing in the dark
to see him again
but all in vain…
Much time has passed
But still my mind
Is conscious
Of the ups and downs
Of treasured but his last breath

poem by Shahzia Batool
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Silence In The Shadow

Silence in the shadow
Thine breath an afterglow
Of silent dark love
The love thine dark show

With eyes open I see
The love of me
The silent dark love
The love I yearn to be

Silence in the shadow
The dark I truly hallow
Hanging from the wood
The wood of death's gallow

Death where no one sees me

poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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The Valley Of Anchor

To uncover her nakedness like a sweet lover on the bed of roses,
But to come up out of her grave like bat out of hell!
I am in the valley of anchor to share my views with you.
I have tiome to uncover her nakedness,
I have the joy to share her love;
But the muse that muses is all that i share with you as well.

To come up out of her grave like a bat out of hell,
With te valley of anchor to share my mind with you;
But from the days of her youth,
She was all that it takes.
Wrapped in the wings of love is her identity and,
I am in the valley of anchor to make love with her;
But from between her breasts are the true love of her muse.

Her lewdness to all is in the valley of anchor,
And her nakedness to all is seen around her youthful breasts;
But the door of her hope is what she has for you,
Like me being with her all day long.
Take a stick and write upon it,
For i desire mercy on this love than hate;
Like the great River Hiddekel.

She has set water for me to drink on this love,
Like a freewill offering of her love in the valley of anchor;
But be very careful to swim deeply into her love.
Like the King's food and the Queen's water,
Im am in a night vision of love to share my views;
And from between her breasts are the sweet things of love.
The deep and the secrets of her love,
Like the great River Hiddekel pouring down on her nakedness;
Come and explore this valley of her anchor.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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In A Garden

Gushing from the mouths of stone men
To spread at ease under the sky
In granite-lipped basins,
Where iris dabble their feet
And rustle to a passing wind,
The water fills the garden with its rushing,
In the midst of the quiet of close-clipped lawns.

Damp smell the ferns in tunnels of stone,
Where trickle and plash the fountains,
Marble fountains, yellowed with much water.

Splashing down moss-tarnished steps
It falls, the water;
And the air is throbbing with it.
With its gurgling and running.
With its leaping, and deep, cool murmur.

And I wished for night and you.
I wanted to see you in the swimming-pool,
White and shining in the silver-flecked water.
While the moon rode over the garden,
High in the arch of night,
And the scent of the lilacs was heavy with stillness.

Night, and the water, and you in your whiteness, bathing!

poem by Amy Lowell
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Imperative Movement

Water
Shining
Dark night

Who’s that walking past?
Only shadow on the moving waters!

Dark silence
Speaking silence
Between the shadow
And me…

One moving
On the moving waters
Me
On the dark earth

Inimitable darkness
Imperative movement!

poem by Indira Babbellapati
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The Black Birds

I

Once, only once, I saw it clear, --
That Eden every human heart has dreamed
A hundred times, but always far away!
Ah, well do I remember how it seemed,
Through the still atmosphere
Of that enchanted day,
To lie wide open to my weary feet:
A little land of love and joy and rest,
With meadows of soft green,
Rosy with cyclamen, and sweet
With delicate breath of violets unseen, --
And, tranquil 'mid the bloom
As if it waited for a coming guest,
A little house of peace and joy and love
Was nested like a snow-white dove

From the rough mountain where I stood,
Homesick for happiness,
Only a narrow valley and a darkling wood
To cross, and then the long distress
Of solitude would be forever past, --
I should be home at last.
But not too soon! oh, let me linger here
And feed my eyes, hungry with sorrow,
On all this loveliness, so near,
And mine to-morrow!

Then, from the wood, across the silvery blue,
A dark bird flew,
Silent, with sable wings.
Close in his wake another came, --
Fragments of midnight floating through
The sunset flame, --
Another and another, weaving rings
Of blackness on the primrose sky, --
Another, and another, look, a score,
A hundred, yes, a thousand rising heavily
From that accursed, dumb, and ancient wood, --
They boiled into the lucid air
Like smoke from some deep caldron of despair!
And more, and more, and ever more,
The numberless, ill-omened brood,
Flapping their ragged plumes,
Possessed the landscape and the evening light
With menaces and glooms.
Oh, dark, dark, dark they hovered o'er the place
Where once I saw the little house so white
Amid the flowers, covering every trace
Of beauty from my troubled sight, --
And suddenly it was night!

II

At break of day I crossed the wooded vale;
And while the morning made
A trembling light among the tree-tops pale,
I saw the sable birds on every limb,
Clinging together closely in the shade,
And croaking placidly their surly hymn.
But, oh, the little land of peace and love
That those night-loving wings had poised above, --
Where was it gone?
Lost, lost forevermore!
Only a cottage, dull and gray,
In the cold light of dawn,
With iron bars across the door:
Only a garden where the withering heads
Of flowers, presaging decay,
Hung over barren beds:
Only a desolate field that lay
Untilled beneath the desolate day, --
Where Eden seemed to bloom I found but these!
So, wondering, I passed along my way,
With anger in my heart, too deep for words,
Against that grove of evil-sheltering trees,
And the black magic of the croaking birds.

poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Sweet welcome summer night

Sweet welcome summer night
Brought in the breezes that waft
Across the port of coolness where waves sleep
Lights flicker on Saint Angelo lazily.

The night is dreaming, the night is dreaming.

Far far inward the Bighi lights
Flicker red and white and red predominant
Into the long night
The long and winding night
As in a tunnel of drowsiness
In the long silence that hovers
Over the small cemetery unused.

The night is dreaming, the night is dreaming quite.

The night is leaning, looking over the rails
From the Upper Barracca on the port
The dreaming port where ships and skiffs
Forget past wars and dream of all but past:

The night is dreaming, the night is dreaming quite.

poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
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North of North

I’m treading shallow water
and there’s moss on all sides of the trees
evergreen
this must be north,
north of north.
“Sometimes I am rock-like
and sometimes I am herring
and sometimes I am you.”
I say this while the water works like wind
upon my eyelashes.
When you are underwater you are always crying
or never crying
and it doesn’t look so blue.
Your boots are territorially based,
rock and rock and mud.
“Do you plan on swimming the whole way? ”
I close my eyes like you don’t exist
like I am being eaten by a bear
like the water is my water and I am dying.
Then I am crying real salt tears
into the real fresh water
and I think of the tree you cut down
and how it cried real maple tears
and surrendered.
“No, ” I say. “We’re here.”

poem by Shaye Anderson
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By The Seaside : Sir Humphrey Gilbert

Southward with fleet of ice
Sailed the corsair Death;
Wild and gast blew the blast,
And the east-wind was his breath.

His lordly ships of ice
Glisten in the sun;
On each side, like pennons wide,
Flashing crystal streamlets run.

His sails of white sea-mist
Dripped with silver rain;
But where he passed there were cast
Leaden shadows o'er the main.

Eastward from Campobello
Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed;
Three days or more seaward he bore,
Then, alas! the land-wind failed.

Alas! the land-wind failed,
And ice-cold grew the night;
And nevermore, on sea or shore,
Should Sir Humphrey see the light.

He sat upon the deck,
The Book was in his hand;
'Do not fear! Heaven is as near,'
He said, 'by water as by land!'

In the first watch of the night,
Without a signal's sound,
Out of the sea, mysteriously,
The fleet of Death rose all around.

The moon and the evening star
Were hanging in the shrouds;
Every mast, as it passed,
Seemed to rake the passing clouds.

They grappled with their prize,
At midnight black and cold!
As of a rock was the shock;
Heavily the ground-swell rolled.

Southward through day and dark,
They drift in cold embrace,
With mist and rain, o'er the open main;
Yet there seems no change of place.

Southward, forever southward,
They drift through dark and day;
And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream
Sinking, vanish all away.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Thirst

My spirit wails for water, water now!
My tongue is aching dry, my throat is hot
For water, fresh rain shaken from a bough,
Or dawn dews heavy in some leafy spot.
My hungry body's burning for a swim
In sunlit water where the air is cool,
As in Trout Valley where upon a limb
The golden finch sings sweetly to the pool.
Oh water, water, when the night is done,
When day steals gray-white through the windowpane,
Clear silver water when I wake, alone,
All impotent of parts, of fevered brain;
Pure water from a forest fountain first,
To wash me, cleanse me, and to quench my thirst!

poem by Claude McKay
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Valentine's Day

She was the color of TV
her mouth curled under like a metal snake
although Holy Wood was sad
they'd remember this as Valentine's day

flies are waiting

In the Shadow of the Valley of Death
In the Shadow of the Valley of Death

slit our wrists and send us to heaven
the first flower after the flood

I saw that pregnant girl today
she didn't know that it was dead inside
even though it was alive
some of us are really born to die

flies are waiting

In the Shadow of the Valley of Death
In the Shadow of the Valley of Death

slit our wrists and send us to heaven
the first flower after the flood

In the Shadow of the Valley of Death
In the Shadow of the Valley of Death

song performed by by Marilyn Manson from Holy Wood (In The Shadow Of The Valley Of Death)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sir Humphrey Gilbert

Southward with fleet of ice
Sailed the corsair Death;
Wild and gast blew the blast,
And the east-wind was his breath.
His lordly ships of ice
Glisten in the sun;
On each side, like pennons wide,
Flashing crystal streamlets run.
His sails of white sea-mist
Dripped with silver rain;
But where he passed there were cast
Leaden shadows o'er the main.

Eastward from Campobello
Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed;
Three days or more seaward he bore,
Then, alas! the land-wind failed.

Alas! the land-wind failed,
And ice-cold grew the night;
And nevermore, on sea or shore,
Should Sir Humphrey see the light.

He sat upon the deck,
The Book was in his hand;
"Do not fear! Heaven is as near,"
He said, "by water as by land!"

In the first watch of the night,
Without a signal's sound,
Out of the sea, mysteriously,
The fleet of Death rose all around.

The moon and the evening star
Were hanging in the shrouds;
Every mast, as it passed,
Seemed to rake the passing clouds.

They grappled with their prize,
At midnight black and cold!
As of a rock was the shock;
Heavily the ground-swell rolled.

Southward through day and dark,
They drift in cold embrace,
With mist and rain, o'er the open main;
Yet there seems no change of place.

Southward, forever southward,
They drift through dark and day;
And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream
Sinking, vanish all away.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Scene Between May and June

In lowly dale, fast by a river's side,
With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round,
A most enchanting wizard did abide,
Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found.

It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground;
And there a season atween June and May,
Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrown'd,
A listless climate made, where, sooth to say,
No living wight could work, ne cared e'en for play.

Was nought around but images of rest,
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between,
And flowery beds, that slumbrous influence kest
From poppies breath'd, and beds of pleasant green,
Where never yet was creeping creature seen.
Meatime unnumber'd glittering streamlets play'd,
And hurl'd everywhere their water's sheen,
That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade,
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.

Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills,
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale,
And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills,
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale:
And now and then sweet Philomel would wail,
Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep,
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale;
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep;
Yet all these sounds y-blent inclined all to sleep.

Full in the passage of the vale above,
A sable, silent, solemn, forest stood,
Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move,
As Idless fancy'd in her dreaming mood;
And up the hills, on either side, a wood
Of black'ning pines, aye waving to and fro,
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood;
And where this valley winded out, below,
The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow.

A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was,
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye,
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
For ever flushing round a summer sky;
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast,
And the calm pleasures, always hover'd nigh;
But whate'er smack'd of noyace or unrest,
Was far, far off expell'd from this delicious nest.

poem by James Thomson
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