Related quotes: Tons upon tons the brown-green...

In an Old Barn

Tons upon tons the brown-green fragrant hay
O'erbrims the mows beyond the time-warped eaves,
Up to the rafters where the spider weaves,
Though few flies wander his secluded way.
Through a high chink one lonely golden ray,
Wherein the dust is dancing, slants unstirred.
In the dry hush some rustlings light are heard,
Of winter-hidden mice at furtive play.
Far down, the cattle in their shadowed stalls,
Nose-deep in clover fodder's meadowy scent,
Forget the snows that whelm their pasture streams,
The frost that bites the world beyond their walls.
Warm housed, they dream of summer, well content
In day-long contemplation of their dreams.

poem by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
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Related quotes

Now, we put out a lot of carbon dioxide every year, over 26 billion tons. For each American, it's about 20 tons. For people in poor countries, it's less than one ton. It's an average of about five tons for everyone on the planet. And, somehow, we have to make changes that will bring that down to zero.

quote by Bill Gates
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Grunge Betty

Hey!
Hey well I rise today
I cant seem to find what I want you for
I open my eyes and I wake on the floor
You open the door
Awake on the floor
Cant seem to find what I want you for
Cause latley baby
Oh yeah Im wasting
Tons of time
Tons of time
Tons of time
Hey!
Hey well I rise today
I cant seem to find what I want you for
I open my eyes and I wake on the floor
You open the door
Awake on the floor
Cant seem to find what I want you for
Cause latley baby
Oh yeah Im wasting
Tons of time
Tons of time
Tons of time
Two three four
Tons of time
Tons of time
Tons of time
Tons of time
Tons of time
Tons of time
Tons of time

song performed by by Dandy Warhols
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Scythe Song

MOWERS, weary and brown, and blithe,
What is the word methinks ye know,
Endless over-word that the Scythe
Sings to the blades of the grass below?
Scythes that swing in the grass and clover,
Something, still, they say as they pass;
What is the word that, over and over,
Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass?

Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying,
Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep;
Hush, they say to the grasses swaying;
Hush, they sing to the clover deep!
Hush—’t is the lullaby Time is singing—
Hush, and heed not, for all things pass;
Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging
Over the clover, over the grass!

poem by Andrew Lang
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I Remember the Snows in the Summer's Light

I remember the snows in the summer's light
Thinking of winter in summer;
When I see the blue, I see white;

I see the fume over roofs so bright,
Feel the warm air caressed by azure,
I remember the snows in the summer's light.

Summers are lazy in my inner sight,
Winters, lazy on the outside, are sure to secure
The blue when I sense the cold of white.

Winter takes me on a summer's flight
To visit the summer and endure
Snows and remember the light.

Perhaps I like spring and fall best,
But winter is spring in summer to allure
Me to feel the fall and see blue in white.

I keep remembering, seeing the bright;
Everything is just a thought you conjure;
I always remember the snows hiding in the light;
When I see the blue, I also see the white.

poem by Dejan Stojanovic
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Summer Days

Summer days are warm, and wonderfully long.
Deep down, within my heart, I feel a joyful song.
Gone are winter days, with their dowdy browns;
The trees and flowers now wear coloured crowns.

The natural world displays its bounteous beauty.
The soft, summer breeze is fragrant and fruity.
Bees, butterflies, and other bugs, now take flight.
Days of summer, feel so very cheerful and bright.

The days of winter can be so deeply depressing,
But now, their true selves, plants are expressing.
Suddenly, the world feels like a much better place,
And the happy smiles are evident on many a face.

The world, all about us, is given a golden glow,
Which illuminates Mother Nature's vibrant show.
Following the winter months: all dull and dreary;
We're treated to a display that's much more cheery.

Winter woodlands appear so very bland and bare,
But, come the summer, they look fabulous and fair.
Shafts of sunlight shine down through the tall trees;
The leaf laden branches rustle in the summer breeze.

Some secretly wish that summer could last forever;
That, all year round, we could enjoy warm weather.
Once summer is here, you hate for it to have to end;
You warm to it, as you would, to your dearest friend.

poem by Angela Wybrow
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When The Frost Is On The Punkin

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey cock
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence
O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below the clover over-head!
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!
I don't know how to tell it but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me
I'd want to 'commodate 'em all the whole-indurin' flock
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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One Summer Dream

Deep waters flow, out to the sea,
They never needed you or me.
One summer dream, one summer dream.
Blue mountains high and valley low,
I dont know which way I should go,
One summer dream, one summer dream.
Warm summer breeze blows endlessly,
Touching the hearts of those who feel,
One summer dream, one summer dream.
Bird on wing goes floating by,
But theres a teardrop in his eye,
One summer dream, one summer dream.
One summer dream, one summer dream.

song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Kentucky

Summer steam
washes us clean
like a warm bath

as we wade through young fields,
new corn waist high
to where blue sky
meets the rustling green sea.

We navigate by dead-
reckoning to the red barn.

Wary of snakes,
with flailing stick you flush
out the tall, quick hares.

Feathers flashing, quail
burst heavenward at
our clumsy approach,

but in the dark barn
we find
forgiveness.

God's own light streams down
into fragrant stalls
as their wise eyes
regard us.

We reach out to touch.

They nod,
first in warning,
then with bright approval.

poem by Steven Federle
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The Hammock's Complaint

Who thinks how desolate and strange
To me must seem the autumn's change,
When housed in attic or in chest,
A lonely and unwilling guest,
I lie through nights of bleak December,
And think in silence, and remember.

I think of hempen fields, where I
Once played with insects floating by,
And joyed alike in sun and rain,
Unconscious of approaching pain.
I dwell upon my later lot,
Where, swung in some secluded spot
Between two tried and trusted trees,
All summer long I wooed the breeze.
With song of bee and call of bird
And lover's secrets overheard,
And sight and scent of blooming flowers,
To fill the happy sunlight's hours.
When verdant fields grow bare and brown,
When forest leaves come raining down,
When frost has mated with the weather
And all the birds go south together,
When drying boats turn up their keels,
Who wonders how the hammock feels?

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair

1 I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair,
2 Borne, like a vapor, on the summer air;
3 I see her tripping where the bright streams play,
4 Happy as the daisies that dance on her way.
5 Many were the wild notes her merry voice would pour.
6 Many were the blithe birds that warbled them o'er:
7 Oh! I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair,
8 Floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air.

9 I long for Jeanie with the daydawn smile,
10 Radiant in gladness, warm with winning guile;
11 I hear her melodies, like joys gone by,
12 Sighing round my heart o'er the fond hopes that die: --
13 Sighing like the night wind and sobbing like the rain, --
14 Wailing for the lost one that comes not again:
15 Oh! I long for Jeanie, and my heart bows low,
16 Never more to find her where the bright waters flow.

17 I sigh for Jeanie, but her light form strayed
18 Far from the fond hearts round her native glade;
19 Her smiles have vanished and her sweet songs flown,
20 Flitting like the dreams that have cheered us and gone.
21 Now the nodding wild flowers may wither on the shore
22 While her gentle fingers will cull them no more:
23 Oh! I sigh for Jeanie with the light brown hair,
24 Floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air.

poem by Stephen C. Foster
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The Arctic Lover

Gone is the long, long winter night;
Look, my beloved one!
How glorious, through his depths of light,
Rolls the majestic sun!
The willows, waked from winter's death,
Give out a fragrance like thy breath--
The summer is begun!

Ay, 'tis the long bright summer day:
Hark, to that mighty crash!
The loosened ice-ridge breaks away--
The smitten waters flash.
Seaward the glittering mountain rides,
While, down its green translucent sides,
The foamy torrents dash.

See, love, my boat is moored for thee,
By ocean's weedy floor--
The petrel does not skim the sea
More swiftly than my oar.
We'll go, where, on the rocky isles,
Her eggs the screaming sea-fowl piles
Beside the pebbly shore.

Or, bide thou where the poppy blows,
With wind-flowers frail and fair,
While I, upon his isle of snows,
Seek and defy the bear.
Fierce though he be, and huge of frame,
This arm his savage strength shall tame,
And drag him from his lair.

When crimson sky and flamy cloud
Bespeak the summer o'er,
And the dead valleys wear a shroud
Of snows that melt no more,
I'll build of ice thy winter home,
With glistening walls and glassy dome,
And spread with skins the floor.

The white fox by thy couch shall play;
And, from the frozen skies,
The meteors of a mimic day
Shall flash upon thine eyes.
And I--for such thy vow--meanwhile
Shall hear thy voice and see thy smile,
Till that long midnight flies.

poem by William Cullen Bryant
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Corryong

The cattle-lands of Corryong,
The maiden of the snows
(Where silver streams the winter long
Sing pleasantly their tinkling song)
Not many a town man knows.
And here sleek cattle, deep in grass,
Watch placidly the seasons pass.

Her beauty has a wondrous worth
This maiden cleanly bright
A beauty won from her rich earth
Where the great Murray has his birth,
And gathers up his might
To scatter rich fertility
On his long journey to the sea.

Her face is laved in waters clear
Snow waters dashing down.
That flash, and hide, and reappear
To feed the pastures far and near
About this lovely town
Fair Corryong, the Cattle Queen,
Hiding her beauty here unseen.

A glory here the scene presents
Glory that may not die;
Where, up from these green, gleaming bents,
Great Kosciusko's battlements
Lift to the laughing sky.
And Corryong contentment knows
The joyous maiden of the snows.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Two Locks Of Hair. From The German Of Pfeizer

A Youth, light-hearted and content,
I wander through the world
Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent
And straight again is furled.

Yet oft I dream, that once a wife
Close in my heart was locked,
And in the sweet repose of life
A blessed child I rocked.

I wake! Away that dream,--away!
Too long did it remain!
So long, that both by night and day
It ever comes again.

The end lies ever in my thought;
To a grave so cold and deep
The mother beautiful was brought;
Then dropt the child asleep.

But now the dream is wholly o'er,
I bathe mine eyes and see;
And wander through the world once more,
A youth so light and free.

Two locks--and they are wondrous fair--
Left me that vision mild;
The brown is from the mother's hair,
The blond is from the child.

And when I see that lock of gold,
Pale grows the evening-red;
And when the dark lock I behold,
I wish that I were dead.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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My Dog and I

My dog and I, the hills we know
Where the first faint wild roses blow,
We know the shadowy paths and cool
That wind across the woodland dim,
And where the water beetles swim
Upon the surface of the pool.

My dog and I, our feet brush through
Full oft the fragrant morning dew,
Or when the summer sun is high
We linger where the river flows,
Chattering and chuckling as it goes,
Two happy tramps, my dog and I.

Or, when the winter snows are deep,
Into some fire-lit nook we creep
And, while the north wind howls outside,
See castles in the dancing blaze,
Or, dozing, dream of summer days
And woodland stretches, wild and wide.

My dog and I are friends till death,
And when the chill, dark angel's breath
Shall call him from me, still I know

Forever friends, my dog and I.

poem by Norah M. Holland
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The Wintergarden ll

Hum-ho, the summer was too long.
(where have you heard that, before?)
But enough of shallow summer song!
There is only winter, here, and
soon it will be snowing, snowing,
out of a perlmutter sky
which we can only scan, shrugging, and say
'Schnee. Schnee.' again and finally,
and wondering, wonder 'why why not and why? '

There is no longer need to proffer water
Store it away, away, then:
set the can down, there,
beside that granulation of the heavens,
nitrous fodder, yet so pricey-why? ,
that golden-spoons from cans
and means as much to flowers as their nectar
does to hummingbird and butterfly.

Every work is done.
Labor has a different meaning now-
Adorning age
these winding transparencies
of flower-flesh, inviting contemplation
prove to be the only worth-it wage
and only valid hedge against inflation:
you should need but put your feet up, no?
scan the sky and watch them flutter-blow.

poem by Morgan Michaels
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Navigator

The canals and the bridges, the embankments and cuts,
They blasted and dug with their sweat and their guts
They never drank water but whiskey by pints
And the shanty towns rang with their songs and their fights.
Navigator, navigator rise up and be strong
The morning is here and theres work to be done.
Take your pick and your shovel and the bold dynamite
For to shift a few tons of this earthly delight
Yes to shift a few tons of this earthly delight.
They died in their hundreds with no sign to mark where
Save the brass in the pocket of the entrepreneur.
By landslide and rockblast they got buried so deep
That in death if not life theyll have peace while they sleep.
Navigator, navigator rise up and be strong
The morning is here and theres work to be done.
Take your pick and your shovel and the bold dynamite
For to shift a few tons of this earthly delight
Yes to shift a few tons of this earthly delight.
Their mark on this land is still seen and still laid
The way for a commerce where vast fortunes were made
The supply of an empire where the sun never set
Which is now deep in darkness, but the railways there yet.
Navigator, navigator rise up and be strong
The morning is here and theres work to be done.
Take your pick and your shovel and the bold dynamite
For to shift a few tons of this earthly delight
Yes to shift a few tons of this earthly delight.

song performed by by Pogues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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By Momba Tracks

THE hearts of the everlasting-flowers
Shall steal the gold o' the sun
When the winter rains have done their work
And the winter days are done,
And the desert pea shall hue the rocks
By the tracks of Momba run.
The dew shall gleam on the silken webs
That the night-time spider weaves,
And scatter its gems on the saltbush plains
And drip from the homestead eaves,
And the quandong fruit take ruddy fire
In the green of the quandong leaves.
The bees shall saunter from bloom to bloom
And burthen their honey-sacs;
And the drovers ride in the sunset light
On the long, long winding tracks;
But never a man shall pause to pray
By the graves of the Barrier blacks.
Deep dug they lie in the mulga scrub,
These graves of a dwindling race,
Stone-piled and bare, where the windy noons
Swift lights and shadows trace!
And the lone, heaped mound is the only sign
Of a dead man's burial-place.
They passed away like a feeble flame
Before the white man's breath
(Wherever the white man sets his feet
The white man comes with death):
And they lie deep-celled in the moisty mould,
And the wind their requiem saith.

poem by Roderic Quinn
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100,000 Tons Of Steel

I know these rails were on like I know my ladys smile,
We see a dozen dreams in every passing mile.
Cant begin to count the trips she and I have made,
But I wish I had a dollar for each time weve both been down this grade.
And 100,000 tons of steel, made to roll.
The brakes dont work and this grades too steep, her engines sure to blow.
And 100,000 tons of steel, out of control,
Shes more a rollercoaster than the train I used to know.
Its one hell of an understatement, to say she cant be beat.
Shes tempermental, more a bitch than a machine.
She wasnt built to travel at speed or through mud slides.
These wheels are bound to jump the tracks before they burn like the ties
And 100,000 tons of steel, made to roll.
The brakes dont work and this grades too steep, her engines sure to blow
And 100,000 tons of steel, out of control
Shes more a rollercoaster than the train I used to know.
Murphy sure out done himself to pick this stretch of track
I can only hope my luck is ridin in the back.
Well I have pray to God this aint the day we meet,
Ive done about everything, but try dragging my feet.
And 100,000 tons of steel, made to roll.
The brakes dont work and this grades too steep, her engines sure to blow
And 100,000 tons of steel, out of control,
Shes more a rollercoaster than the train I used to know.
Oh, oh I want to go down slow.

song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tons Of Steel

I know these rails were on like I know my ladys smile,
We see a dozen dreams in every passing mile.
Cant begin to count the trips she and I have made,
But I wish I had a dollar for each time weve both been down this grade.
And 100,000 tons of steel, made to roll.
The brakes dont work and this grades too steep, her engines sure to blow.
And 100,000 tons of steel, out of control,
Shes more a rollercoaster than the train I used to know.
Its one hell of an understatement, to say she cant be beat.
Shes temperamental, more a bitch than a machine.
She wasnt built to travel at speed or through mud slides.
These wheels are bound to jump the tracks before they burn like the ties
And 100,000 tons of steel, made to roll.
The brakes dont work and this grades too steep, her engines sure to blow
And 100,000 tons of steel, out of control
Shes more a rollercoaster than the train I used to know.
Murphy sure out done himself to pick this stretch of track
I can only hope my luck is ridin in the back.
Well I have pray to God this aint the day we meet,
Ive done about everything, but try dragging my feet.
And 100,000 tons of steel, made to roll.
The brakes dont work and this grades too steep, her engines sure to blow
And 100,000 tons of steel, out of control,
Shes more a rollercoaster than the train I used to know.
Oh, oh I want to go down slow.