The Waking (1948)
I strolled across
An open field;
The sun was out;
Heat was happy.
This way!This way!
The wren's throat shimmered,
Either to other,
The blossoms sang.
The stones sang,
The little ones did,
And flowers jumped
Like small goats.
A ragged fringe
Of daisies waved;
I wasn't alone
In a grove of apples.
Far in the wood
A nestling sighed;
The dew loosened
Its morning smells.
I came where the river
Ran over stones:
My ears knew
An early joy.
And all the waters
Of all the streams
Sang in my veins
That summer day.
poem by Theodore Roethke
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Related quotes
The Poet's Song
I HID in the world and sang,
And I sang so loud and long
That all the ages rang
With the music of my song.
I sang of the earth and sky,
5
I sang of the whispering seas,
I sang of the mountains high,
And I sang of the flowers and trees;
I sang of the early spring,
I sang of the dawning day,
10
I sang, for I had to sing
As the young lambs have to play;
Till heaven and earth were ringing,
And all the people heard,
And they said, "We love his singing,
15
For his song is the song of the bird."
poem by Frederick George Scott
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The Daisies
IN THE scented bud of the morning—O,
When the windy grass went rippling far,
I saw my dear one walking slow,
In the field where the daisies are.
We did not laugh and we did not speak
As we wandered happily to and fro;
I kissed my dear on either cheek,
In the bud of the morning—O.
A lark sang up from the breezy land,
A lark sang down from a cloud afar,
And she and I went hand in hand
In the field where the daisies are.
poem by James Stephens
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The Day The Sun Sang
The moon stood,
The sea sank,
The mountains melted,
And no man died,
The day the Sun sang.
All birds blubbered,
All goats flew,
All insects sailed,
And no woman menstruated,
The day the Sun sang.
No shoe was worn,
No cloth washed,
No undies lined,
And no baby cried,
The day the Sun sang.
Whose eye saw?
Whose nose perceived?
Whose hand laboured?
And which being ate?
The day the Sun sang.
Only a star shone,
Only a match lit,
Only a wood burned,
And no life slept,
The day the Sun sang.
Mankind wailed,
Animals flinched,
Dead bodies respired,
And no creature ever wished,
That the Sun should ever sing!
poem by Ajayi Olubunmi Kolade
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I woke up to a lullaby
I woke up to a lullaby
The birds sang a song for me
They sang their hearts out all the while
Dancing on the maple tree
Each bird sang a different song
That melted into one
A song full of promises
For the day that’s just begun
They sang of sorrow
Of happiness and mirth
The sang of marriage
And of birth
They sang of people laughing
And of them crying
They sang of sickness
They sang of dying
This little song
They sang for me
Made me think
Made me free
Bo-beh-o-bi Sang The Lips
Bo-beh-o-bi, sang the lips,
Veh-eh-o-mi, sang the glances,
Pi-eh-eh-o, sang the brows,
Li-eh-eh-ey, sang the visage,
Gzi-gzi-gzeh-o, sang the chain.
Thus on a canvas of some correspondences
Beyond dimension lived the face.
poem by Velimir Khlebnikov
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I Sing Last / Not For Tears
We've been told lies.
We've been herded around
Taken for rides, told that this is the one
We've learned all the steps and where do they lead
Right back to zero or not far I believe
Making history as we open our eyes
And no one's quite sure so we... We improvise
And wherever it leads us is wherever we'll go
I'd dance forever if they'd let me, you know
Wearing our hair up in anger we cry
The revolutions dead it went out in style
The children are learning much faster than we
Soon they'll be older but then again, so will we
Time has come for each of us to decide
To follow blindly or to step out of line
The party is over it has been for years
Let's use the water to wash up, not for tears
Seems such a pity
It seemed we had the same dream
And thinking of things past
You sang first I sang last
You sang first I sang last
You sang first I sang last
song performed by by Men Without Hats
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Hear Voices...
And from the graves, where names were carved in
stone, came a mournful Ballad, of life gone by.
A Ballad sang by mothers, whose children left behind,
and left to sing their ballads, of tears that did remain.
And what of Fathers Ballad, whose job was not complete,
who died and sang his song, of things that could not be.
In a smaller voices, still weeping and confused, the children
sang their Ballad, of parents never knew.
And in some far off place, a Ballad did come fourth, of all
the deaths that happened, that wasn't meant to be.
A soldiers painful Ballad, did seemed so unjust, of the
war that finally killed him, in a land he never knew.
The Ballad, of unknown, thou human, none the less,
were buried here alone, with not a one to care.
In the quiet of a cemetery morn, the Ballad of
the dead, echoes silently across green grass,
and through the granite stones.
It makes one wonder, about the Ballad of the dead,
and what will be our song...when we are finally gone.
A Little Songbird
A little songbird sang
from a treetop high.
It sang for blue skies
for within to fly.
It sang out its message
at the first rays
of the dawning day.
It also sang for peace and love
within a world filled with unrest.
It sang a joyous message
for all those who wanted to hear
that little songbird
that sang in a treetop high.
13 January 2008
poem by David Harris
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The River Sings
The river sings
A voice rises above
Fairer than the water, rings
I know you well
For the river has told
All there is to tell
It sung of a maiden
Fair as the water’s song
Her heart heavy laden
Though she sang
Her song was sorrowed
In voice the sadness rang
No words were needed
The river knew
Her voice it heeded
She walked alone
Her gaiety was lost
River, her only home
She listened to the water
Telling a story
Calling her River Daughter
The river sang, through day and night
Sang for her, the only listener
She joined the song, through dark and light
She called to her lover
Come free me!
Called with song and river
poem by Rachel Harris
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Letter To Hermione
People stared at the makeup on his face
Laughed at his long black hair, his animal grace
The boy in the bright blue jeans
Jumped onto the stage
And lady stardust sang his songs
Of darkness and disgrace
And he was alright the band was altogether
Yes he was alright the song went on forever
And he was awful nice
Really quite out of sight
And he sang all night long
Femme fatales emerged from the shadows
To watch this creature fair
Boys stood upon their chairs
To make their point of view
I smiled sadly for a love I could not obey
And lady stardust sang his songs
Of darness and dismay
And he was alright the band was altogether
Yes he was alright the song went on forever
And he was awful nice
Really quite paradise
And he sang all night long
Oh how I sighed when they asked if I knew his name
And he was alright the band was altogether
Yes he was alright the song went on forever
And he was awful nice
Really quite paradise
And he sang all night long
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Song of Enchantment
A song of Enchantment I sang me there,
In a green-green wood, by waters fair,
Just as the words came up to me
I sang it under the wild wood tree.
Widdershins turned I, singing it low,
Watching the wild birds come and go;
No cloud in the deep dark blue to be seen
Under the thick-thatched branches green.
Twilight came: silence came:
The planet of Evening's silver flame;
By darkening paths I wandered through
Thickets trembling with drops of dew.
But the music is lost and the words are gone
Of the song I sang as I sat alone,
Ages and ages have fallen on me -
On the wood and the pool and the elder tree.
poem by Walter de la Mare
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The Fury Of Guitars and Sopranos
This singing
is a kind of dying,
a kind of birth,
a votive candle.
I have a dream-mother
who sings with her guitar,
nursing the bedroom
with a moonlight and beautiful olives.
A flute came too,
joining the five strings,
a God finger over the holes.
I knew a beautiful woman once
who sang with her fingertips
and her eyes were brown
like small birds.
At the cup of her breasts
I drew wine.
At the mound of her legs
I drew figs.
She sang for my thirst,
mysterious songs of God
that would have laid an army down.
It was as if a morning-glory
had bloomed in her throat
and all that blue
and small pollen
ate into my heart
violent and religious.
poem by Anne Sexton
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Elegy For Jane
(My student, thrown by a horse)
I remember the neckcurls, limp and damp as tendrils;
And her quick look, a sidelong pickerel smile;
And how, once started into talk, the light syllables leaped for her.
And she balanced in the delight of her thought,
A wren, happy, tail into the wind,
Her song trembling the twigs and small branches.
The shade sang with her;
The leaves, their whispers turned to kissing,
And the mould sang in the bleached valleys under the rose.
Oh, when she was sad, she cast herself down into such a pure depth,
Even a father could not find her:
Scraping her cheek against straw,
Stirring the clearest water.
My sparrow, you are not here,
Waiting like a fern, making a spiney shadow.
The sides of wet stones cannot console me,
Nor the moss, wound with the last light.
If only I could nudge you from this sleep,
My maimed darling, my skittery pigeon.
Over this damp grave I speak the words of my love:
I, with no rights in this matter,
Neither father nor lover.
poem by Theodore Roethke
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The Song
I SANG of the sun on the waters,
And then of the wind in the wood;
And the people hearkened my singing
And said that the song was good.
I sang of the sheep on the mountains,
And then of the thrush on the hill;
And the people hearkened my singing
And said it was better still.
I sang of the bliss of lovers,
And then of their hopes that fall;
And the people hearkened my singing
And said it was best of all.
For the song that is loved of the people,
And sought since the world began,
Is the sad and beautiful music
Of the loves and sorrows of Man.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Day Of The Locusts
Oh, the benches were stained with tears and perspiration,
The birdies were flying from tree to tree.
There was little to say, there was no conversation
As I stepped to the stage to pick up my degree.
And the locusts sang off in the distance,
Yeah, the locusts sang such a sweet melody.
Oh, the locusts sang off in the distance,
Yeah, the locusts sang and they were singing for me.
I glanced into the chamber where the judges were talking,
Darkness was everywhere, it smelled like a tomb.
I was ready to leave, I was already walkin,
But the next time I looked there was light in the room.
And the locusts sang, yeah, it give me a chill,
Oh, the locusts sang such a sweet melody.
Oh, the locusts sang their high whining trill,
Yeah, the locusts sang and they were singing for me.
Outside of the gates the trucks were unloadin,
The weather was hot, a-nearly 90 degrees.
The man standin next to me, his head was exploding,
Well, I was prayin the pieces wouldnt fall on me.
Yeah, the locusts sang off in the distance,
Yeah, the locusts sang such a sweet melody.
Oh, the locusts sang off in the distance,
And the locusts sang and they were singing for me.
I put down my robe, picked up my diploma,
Took hold of my sweetheart and away we did drive,
Straight for the hills, the black hills of dakota,
Sure was glad to get out of there alive.
And the locusts sang, well, it give me a chill,
Yeah, the locusts sang such a sweet melody.
And the locusts sang with a high whinin trill,
Yeah, the locusts sang and they was singing for me,
Singing for me, well, singing for me.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Her Song
I sang that song on Sunday,
To witch an idle while,
I sang that song on Monday,
As fittest to beguile;
I sang it as the year outwore,
And the new slid in;
I thought not what might shape before
Another would begin.
I sang that song in summer,
All unforeknowingly,
To him as a new-comer
From regions strange to me:
I sang it when in afteryears
The shades stretched out,
And paths were faint; and flocking fears
Brought cup-eyed care and doubt.
Sings he that song on Sundays
In some dim land afar,
On Saturdays, or Mondays,
As when the evening star
Glimpsed in upon his bending face
And my hanging hair,
And time untouched me with a trace
Of soul-smart or despair?
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Money makes you high
Unheard, one sang to oneself.
Unpaid, one sang to the crowd.
Having paid, one sang in a concert
And became soon popular.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Little Birdy
Oh little birdy, oh little birdy
I saw the little birdy sing
He sang with glee and everything
He sang for spring and sang for me
And everything was so happy
I dont know why I want to fly
Try to sigh, try to fly, made a tie
And then it tried to get me down
I want to buy make me fly
Get me high, so I can try
And then I try
The little birdy start to cry so happy
Little birdy was so happy
Little birdy was so happy
Can I touch your birdy wing?
And fly and hop and everything
Can the sun reach down on us
And through the heavens only we would sing
I want the birdy make me laugh
See the birdy make me laugh
Take a little birdy bath
I dont know why he got me high
I dont know why, I dont know why
It cannot die, it sang too high
And all the birds on the wing sang so together
[repeat all]
So together, so together
song performed by by Ween
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Little Birdy
Oh little birdy, oh little birdy
I saw the little birdy sing
He sang with glee and everything
He sang for spring and sang for me
And everything was so happy
I dont know why I want to fly
Try to sigh, try to fly, made a tie
And then it tried to get me down
I want to buy make me fly
Get me high, so I can try
And then I try
The little birdy start to cry so happy
Little birdy was so happy
Little birdy was so happy
Can I touch your birdy wing?
And fly and hop and everything
Can the sun reach down on us
And through the heavens only we would sing
I want the birdy make me laugh
See the birdy make me laugh
Take a little birdy bath
I dont know why he got me high
I dont know why, I dont know why
It cannot die, it sang too high
And all the birds on the wing sang so together
[repeat all]
So together, so together
song performed by by Ween
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Robin Song
Robin sang sweetly
when the days were bright,
thanks, thanks, for the summer
he sang with all his might.
yo!
poem by Lolla Shakespere
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