Srahmandazi
Deep embowered beside the forest river,
Where the flame of sunset only falls,
Lapped in silence lies the House of Dying,
House of them to whom the twilight calls.
There within when day was near to ending,
By her lord a woman young and strong,
By his chief a songman old and stricken
Watched together till the hour of song.
'O my songman, now the bow is broken,
Now the arrows one by one are sped,
Sing to me the song of Srahmandazi,
Srahmandazi, home of all the dead.'
Then the songman, flinging wide his songnet,
On the last token laid his master's hand,
While he sang the song of Srahmandazi,
None but dying men can understand.
'Yonder sun that fierce and fiery-hearted
Marches down the sky to vanish soon,
At the self-same hour in Srahmandazi
Rises pallid like the rainy moon.
'There he sees the heroes by their river,
Where the great fish daily upward swim;
Yet they are but shadows hunting shadows,
Phantom fish in waters drear and dim.
'There he sees the kings among their headmen,
Women weaving, children playing games;
Yet they are but shadows ruling shadows,
Phantom folk with dim forgotten names.
'Bid farewell to all that most thou lovest,
Tell thy heart thy living life is done;
All the days and deeds of Srahmandazi
Are not worth an hour of yonder sun.
Dreamily the chief from out the songnet
Drew his hand and touched the woman's head:
'Know they not, then, love in Srahmandazi?
Has a king no bride among the dead?'
Then the songman answered, 'O my master,
Love they know, but none may learn it there;
Only souls that reach that land together
Keep their troth and find the twilight fair.
'Thou art still a king, and at thy passing
By thy latest word must all abide:
If thou willest, here am I, thy songman;
If thou lovest, here is she, thy bride.'
Hushed and dreamy lay the House of Dying,
Dreamily the sunlight upward failed,
Dreamily the chief on eyes that loved him
Looked with eyes the coming twilight veiled.
Then he cried, 'My songman, I am passing;
Let her live, her life is but begun;
All the days and nights of Srahmandazi
Are not worth an hour of yonder sun.'
Yet, when there within the House of Dying
The last silence held the sunset air,
Not alone he came to Srahmandazi,
Not alone she found the twilight fair:
While the songman, far beneath the forest
Sang of Srahmandazi all night through,
'Lovely be thy name, O Land of shadows,
Land of meeting, Land of all the true!'
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Related quotes
Mr. Songman
(words & music by donnie summer)
Here's another dime for you, mr. songman
Sing the loneliness of broken dreams away, if you can
Yes it's only me and you, mr. songman
Take away the night sing away my hurt, mr. songman
In your ivory covered house, safe behind your walls of glass
You keep staring back at me like a memory from the past
Won't you sing me away to a summer night
Let me hold you in my arms again
I know memory's not re-living
But at least it's not the end
Here's another dime for you mr. songman
Sing the loneliness of broken dreams away, if you can
Yes it's only me and you, mr. songman
Won't you take away the night, sing away my hurt, mr. songman
Won't you sing me away to a summer night
Let me hold her in my arms again
Take away the night sing away my hurt, mr. songman
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Dialogue
THE FAITHLESS LOVER.
O life, dear Life, in this fair house
Long since did I, it seems to me,
In some mysterious, doleful way
Fall out of love with thee.
For, Life, thou art become a ghost,
A memory of days gone by;
A poor forsaken thing between
A heartache and a sigh.
And now, with shadows from the hills
Thronging the twilight, wraith on wraith,
Unlock the door and let me go
To thy dark rival Death!
THE FAITHFUL LOVE.
O Heart, dear Heart, in this fair house
Why hast thou wearied and grown tired,
Between a morning and a night,
Of all thy soul desired?
Fond one, who cannot understand
Even these shadows on the floor,
Yet must be dreaming of dark loves
And joys beyond my door!
But I am beautiful past all
The timid tumult of thy mood,
And thou, returning not, must still
Be mine in solitude.
poem by Bliss Carman (1894)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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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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In The Garden At Swainston
NIGHTINGALES warbled without,
Within was weeping for thee:
Shadows of three dead men
Walk'd in the walks with me:
Shadows of three dead men, and thou wast one of the three.
Nightingales sang in the woods:
The Master was far away:
Nightingales warbled and sang
Of a passion that lasts but a day;
Still in the house in his coffin the Prince of courtesy lay.
Two dead men have I known
In courtesy like to thee:
Two dead men have I loved
With a love that ever will be:
Three dead men have I loved, and thou art last of the three.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Twilight
I love thee, Twilight! as thy shadows roll,
The calm of evening steals upon my soul,
Sublimely tender, solemnly serene,
Still as the hour, enchanting as the scene.
I love thee, Twilight! for thy gleams impart
Their dear, their dying influence to my heart.
When o'er the harp of thought thy passing wind
Awakens all the music of the mind,
And joy and sorrow, as the spirit burns,
And hope and memory sweep the chords by turns
While contemplation, on seraphic wings,
Mounts with the flame of sacrifice, and sings.
Twilight! I love thee; let thy glooms increase,
Till every feeling, every pulse, is peace.
Slow from the sky the light of day declines,
Clearer within, the dawn of glory shines,
Revealing, in the hour of nature's rest,
A world of wonders in the poet's breast;
Deeper, O Twilight! then thy shadows roll, -
An awful vision opens on my soul.
poem by James Montgomery
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Like An Angel Passing Through My Room
Long awaited darkness falls
Casting shadows on the walls
In the twilight hour I am alone
Sitting near the fireplace, dying embers warm my face
In this peaceful solitude
All the outside world subdued
Everything comes back to me again
In the gloom
Like an angel passing through my room
Half awake and half in dreams
Seeing long forgotten scenes
So the present runs into the past
Now and then become entwined, playing games within my mind
Like the embers as they die
Love was one prolonged goodbye
And it all comes back to me tonight
In the gloom
Like an angel passing through my room
I close my eyes
And my twilight images go by
All too soon
Like an angel passing through my room
song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Praise Of Ysolt
In vain have I striven,
to teach my heart to bow;
In vain have I said to him
'There be many singers greater than thou'.
But his answer cometh, as winds and as lutany,
As a vague crying upon the night
That leaveth me no rest, saying ever,
'Song, a song.'
Their echoes play upon each other in the twilight
Seeking ever a song.
Lo, I am worn with travail
And the wandering of many roads hath made my eyes
As dark red circles filled with dust.
Yet there is a trembling upon me in the twilight,
And little red elf words crying, ‘A song',
Little grey elf words crying for a song,
Little brown leaf words crying, ‘A song',
Little green leaf words crying for a song.
The words are as leaves, old brown leaves in the spring time
Blowing they know not whither, seeking a song.
White words as snow flakes but they are cold,
Moss words, lip words, words of slow streams.
In vain have I striven
to teach my soul to bow,
In vain have I pled with him:
'There be greater souls than thou.'
For in the morn of my years there came a woman
As moonlight calling,
As the moon calleth the tides,
'Song, a song.'
Wherefore I made her a song and she went from me
As the moon doth from the sea,
But still came the leaf words, little brown elf words
Stying 'The soul sendeth us'.
'A song, a song!'
And in vain I cried unto them ‘I have no song
For she I sang of hath gone from me'.
But my soul sent a woman, a woman of the wonder-folk,
A woman as fire upon the pine woods
crying 'Song, a song'.
As the flame crieth unto the sap.
My song was ablaze with her and she went from me
As flame leaveth the embers so went she unto new forests '
And the words were with me
crying ever. 'Song, a song'.
And I 'I have no song',
Till my soul sent a woman as the sun:
Yea as the sun calleth to the seed,
As the spring upon the bough
So is she that cometh, the mother of songs,
She that holdeth the wonder words within her eyes
The words, little elf words
that call ever unto me,
'Song, a song'.
In vain have I striven with my soul
to teach my soul to bow.
What soul boweth
while in his heart art thou?
poem by Ezra Pound
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Early Works - The Twilight Hour
When twilight is here
you shall see
but not hear a sound
the world will be peaceful
the seas will be calm
the flowers will sway gracefully
in the breeze as night does come.
The twilight hour
is the hour before darkness does prevail
when little children into dreamland sail
when the sunset leaves the sky grey and blue
then the twilight hour comes into view.
The big city sounds die peacefully
when twilight calls gracefully
as small creatures rest their heads in sleep
as all the world in tranquil stillness does seep
for the twilight hour is tranquil
as it gracefully does call.
Date unknown
poem by David Harris
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The Lay Of Christine
TRANSLATED FROM THE ICELANDIC.
Of silk my gear was shapen,
Scarlet they did on me,
Then to the sea-strand was I borne
And laid in a bark of the sea.
O well were I from the World away.
Befell it there I might not drown,
For God to me was good;
The billows bare me up a-land
Where grew the fair green-wood.
O well were I from the World away.
There came a Knight a-riding
With three swains along the way
And he took me up, the little-one,
On the sea-sand as I lay.
O well were I from the World away.
He took me up, and bare me home
To the house that was his own,
And there bode I so long with him
That I was his love alone.
O well were I from the World away.
But the very first night we lay abed
Befell his sorrow and harm,
That thither came the King’s ill men,
And slew him on mine arm.
O well were I from the World away.
There slew they Adalbright the King,
Two of his swains slew they,
But the third sailed swiftly from the land
Sithence I saw him never a day.
O well were I from the World away.
O wavering hope of this world’s bliss,
How shall men trow in thee?
My Grove of Gems is gone away
For mine eyes no more to see!
O well were I from the World away.
Each hour the while my life shall last
Remembereth him alone,
Such heavy sorrow have I got
From our meeting long agone.
O well were I from the World away.
O, early in the morning-tide
Men cry: “Christine the fair,
Art thou well content with that true love
Thou sittest loving there?”
O well were I from the World away.
Ah, yea, so well I love him,
And so dear my love shall be,
That the very God of Heaven aloft
Worshippeth him and me.
O well were I from the World away.
“Ah, all the red gold I have got
Well would I give to-day,
Only for this and nothing else
From the world to win away.”
O well were I from the World away.
“Nay, midst all folk upon the earth
Keep thou thy ruddy gold,
And love withal the mighty lord
That wedded thee of old.”
O well were I from the World away.
poem by William Morris
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Abide With Me
Abide with us: for it is towards evening, and the day is far spent. -- Luke xxiv.29
Abide with me! Fast falls the Eventide;
The darkness thickens. Lord, with me abide
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me!
Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;
Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away:
Change and decay in all around I see.
O Thou who changest not, abide with me!
Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word;
But as Thou dwellst with thy disciples, Lord,
Familiar, condescending, patient, free, --
Come, not to sojourn, but abide with me.
Come not in terrors, as the King of kings;
But kind and good, with healing in Thy wings,
Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea.
Come, Friend of sinners and thus bide with me.
Thou on my head in early youth did smile,
And though rebellious and perverse meanwhile,
Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee.
On to the close, O Lord, abide with me!
I need thy presence every passing hour.
What but thy grace can foil the Tempter's power?
Who like Thyself my guide and stay can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, O, abide with me!
I fear no foe with thee at hand to bless;
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is death's sting? where grave thy victory?
I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.
Hold then thy cross before my closing eyes;
Speak through the gloom, and point me to the skies.
Heaven's morning breaks, and Earth's vain shadows flee!
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me!
poem by Henry Francis Lyte
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A Twilight Song
Why, rapturous bird, though shades of night
Muffle the leaves and swathe the lawn,
Singest thou still with all thy might,
As though 'twere noon, as though 'twere dawn?
Silence darkens on vale and hill,
But thou, unseen, art singing still.
'Tis because, though in dusky bower,
With love delighted still thou art;
Nor hath the deepening twilight power
To lay a curfew on thy heart.
Thou lovest; and, loving, dost prolong
The sense of sunlight with thy song.
Thus may love's rapture haunt me still
When life's full radiance fadeth slow
Along the faltering west, and fill
With melody my afterglow,
And something of Song's morning might
Linger, to make you doubt 'tis night.
poem by Alfred Austin
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A Carol
This gospel sang the angels bright:
Lord Jhesu shall be born this night;
Born not in house nor yet in hall,
Wrapped not in purple nor in pall,
Rocked not in silver, neither gold;
This word the angels sang of old;
Nor christened with white wine nor red;
This word of old the angels said
Of Him which holdeth in His hand
The strong sea and green land.
This thrice and four times happy night—
These tidings sang the angels bright—
Forlorn, betwixen ear and horn,
A babe shall Jhesu Lord be born,
A weeping babe in all the cold;—
This word the angels sang of old—
And wisps of hay shall be his bed;
This word of old the angels said
Of Him which keepeth in His hand
The strong sea and green land.
O babe and Lord, Thou Jhesu bright,—
Let all and some now sing this night—
Betwixt our sorrow and our sin,
Be thou new-born our hearts within;
New-born, dear babe and little King,
So letten some and all men sing—
To wipe for us our tears away!
This night so letten all men say
Of Him which spake, and lo! they be—
The green land and strong sea.
poem by William Canton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Land, Ho!
I know ’tis but a loom of land,
Yet is it land, and so I will rejoice,
I know I cannot hear His voice
Upon the shore, nor see Him stand;
Yet is it land, ho! land.
The land! the land! the lovely land!
‘Far off,’ dost say? Far off—ah, blessèd home!
Farewell! farewell! thou salt sea-foam!
Ah, keel upon the silver sand—
Land, ho! land.
You cannot see the land, my land,
You cannot see, and yet the land is there—
My land, my land, through murky air—
I did not say ’twas close at hand—
But—land, ho! land.
Dost hear the bells of my sweet land,
Dost hear the kine, dost hear the merry birds?
No voice, ’tis true, no spoken words,
No tongue that thou may’st understand—
Yet is it land, ho! land.
It’s clad in purple mist, my land,
In regal robe it is apparellèd,
A crown is set upon its head,
And on its breast a golden band—
Land, ho! land.
Dost wonder that I long for land?
My land is not a land as others are—
Upon its crest there beams a star,
And lilies grow upon the strand—
Land, ho! land.
Give me the helm! there is the land!
Ha! lusty mariners, she takes the breeze!
And what my spirit sees it sees—
Leap, bark, as leaps the thunderbrand—
Land, ho! land.
poem by Thomas Edward Brown
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Tis because, though in dusky bower
'Tis because, though in dusky bower,
With love delighted still thou art;
Nor hath the deepening twilight power
To lay a curfew on thy heart.
Thou lovest; and, loving, dost prolong
The sense of sunlight with thy song.
poem by Alfred Austin
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Other Verses
Myself—My Song.
HERE, aloof, I take my stand—
Alien, iconoclast—
Poet of a newer land,
Confident, aggressive, lonely,
Product of the present only,
Thinking nothing of the past.
If some word of mine abide,
Yet no immortality
Looks my soul for; satisfied,
Though my voice be evanescent,
If it sing the pregnant present
And the birth that is to be.
All the beauty that has been,
All of wisdom's overplus,
Has been given me to glean;
In Earth's story clear one page is—
This—the widest of the ages—
Virile, vast, tumultuous.
I shall croon no love-song old,
Dream no memory of wrong,
Build no mighty epic bold;
From my forge I send them flying—
Fragments glowing once and dying—
Scattered sparks of molten song.
If I bring no gospel bright,
Still my little stream of song
Quavers thinly through the night,
Burdened with a broken yearning,
Still persistent, though discerning
Life has shadows, sorrow, wrong.
So my life shall be my verse.
Here's my record, stand or fall I
Failure may be mine, or worse,
In the twilight land of living—
With no doubt and no misgiving,
Here's my life-blood, breath and all!
poem by Arthur Henry Adams
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Brother, You’ll Take My Hand
NOT to the sober and staid,
Leading a quiet life,
But to men whose paths are laid
Ever through storm and strife—
Here is a song from me,
Sent to the tragic West,
Message of sympathy
To the hearts that can never rest.
This is the song I send
Out to the Western land—
Sinner, and martyr, and friend,
Brother! you’ll take my hand.
To you who have loved and lost;
To you whose souls have died
Cursing a fair false face
And the red warm lips that lied;
Loved with a boyish love,
With a love that was pure and true,
That set one woman above
The world that was known to you;
Eating your heart out now
Alone on a waste of sand—
I have been played with too.
Brother! you’ll take my hand.
To you who were loved too well,
And who cast that love aside
When your vanity was replete
And your passion was satisfied—
Haunted now day and night;
Haunted in every place
By the eyes of a suicide,
Set in a dead girl’s face.
Crouched in your misery
Out where the stars are grand—
O I am haunted too!
Brother! you’ll take my hand.
To you who had wealth or name,
Friends, love, and a future fair,
And who sacrificed all for drink
And the nights of Leicester Square:
In by the drunken town,
Out on the barren tramp,
Pacing it up and down
Alone by the listening camp;
Crouched in your agony,
Hiding your eyes with your hand—
I had the ball at my feet—
Brother! I understand.
There is a light for all;
Hold up your head and live!
Forgive the woman who wronged,
And the dead girl will forgive.
Brood not, but work for good;
Work in the world of men—
Strong is the man who fell
And rose from the depths again.
There shall be peace for you,
Sinners, who win the land.
I would fight upward too—
Brother! you’ll take my hand.
poem by Henry Lawson
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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
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By Morning Twilight
Night, like a dying mother,
Eyes her young offspring, Day.
The birds are dreamily piping.
And O, my love, my darling!
The night is life ebb'd away:
Away beyond our reach!
A sea that has cast us pale on the beach;
Weeds with the weeds and the pebbles
That hear the lone tamarisk rooted in sand
Sway
With the song of the sea to the land.
poem by George Meredith
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Why the silence?
Why the silence? Is it the hour of sunset?
Or the eyes may straggle and it's the hour of dreams
Or the mind may have been displaced and it's hour of reflections
Or the heart has been busy and it's hour of the groans
Why the silence? Is it the hour of sunset?
Or the words have got lost in the midst of ideas
Or silence now become the language of the times
Or the tongue tie with a sunset
Why the silence? Is it the hour of sunset?
Or now no need for my presence
Or now I am a hidden friend
Or now I am not who I was
Why the silence? Is it the hour of sunset?
Or... And the story continue silently
poem by Mohammed AlBalushi
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An Evening
TO break the stillness of the hour
There is no sound, no voice, no stir;
Only the croak of frogs,—the whirr
Of crickets hidden in leaf and flower.
The clear-cut outlines of a spire
Spring from a mass of eucalypt
Sharply against the sky,—still tipped
With one last gleam of lingering fire.
So solemnly the shadows creep;
On dovelike wings Night flutters down;
Lights twinkle in the little town;
The valley lies in quiet sleep.
So comes the dark, so fades the light,
On all those leagues of tossing sea
That lie between my home and me,
And glimmer to the stars all night.
And so, belovèd, silently
In thine own land the shadows fall
On grassy lawn, and garden-wall,
On shining sand, and troubled sea,—
On paths thy feet shall never tread,—
On fields thine eyes shall never see,—
And on thy new home, strange to me,
That silent City of the Dead!
Yea, stillness rests, O Tried and True,
On hand and heart, on lips and eyes!
On thee eternal silence lies,
On thee is utter darkness too.
We lost too much in losing thee,
Yet we who knew and loved thee best,
Wish thee an everlasting rest,
Night came on thee so quietly.
Peace with the Shadows! Peace to all
Who work and weep, who pray and wait;
Till we and thou are one with Fate,
And on us too, the Night shall fall!
poem by Dora Wilcox
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