En.Citatepedia^®.ro

In Time Of

I
Only a man harrowing clods
In a slow silent walk
With an old horse that stumbles and nods
Half asleep as they stalk.

II
Only thin smoke without flame
From the heaps of couch-grass;
Yet this will go onwards the same
Though Dynasties pass.

III
Yonder a maid and her wight
Go whispering by:
War's annals will cloud into night
Ere their story die.

poem by Thomas Hardy
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In Time of 'The Breaking of Nations

Only a man harrowing clods
In a slow silent walk
With an old horse that stumbles and nods
Half asleep as they stalk.

Only thin smoke without flame
From the heaps of couch-grass;
Yet this will go onward the same
Though Dynasties pass.

Yonder a maid and her wight
Come whispering by:
War's annals will cloud into night
Ere their story die.

poem by Thomas Hardy
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Verses On Night And Day

In the forest at night
my good old horse
has lost his way.

His head nods sleepily –
perhaps he dreams
of fields green by day.

The owls are hooting,
the night is cold,
the ground is hard,

but all night long
my good old horse
will stand his guard.

Daylight will come
to light the woods
at break of day,

and at that time
my horse will know
to find the way.

The night and darkness
are as nothing
to my old horse,

for he knows to wait
as time shall pass, and life
shall take its course.

poem by Rory Hudson
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The Furrow

An old horse to the furrow - an old man to the plough -
For the young horse and the young lad, they're needed yonder now -

The horse, so young and mettled he scarce had known the rein,
That shook his feathered fetlocks and tossed his streaming mane -

The lad that used to drive him, so strong and straight and tall,
That dressed him fine with ribbons and groomed him in the stall.

Ah, there as here, old Captain, we know, both I and you,
He'll drive a straight furrow as he always used to do!

The clods before the ploughshare fall heavily apart,
But never a clod among them so heavy as my heart -

To smell the clean earth breaking and the kind country smells,
And think o' the stink and reek there, and the bursting o' the shells.

An old horse to the furrow - an old man to the plough -
And the young horse and the young lad . . . how fare they yonder now?

poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Sonnet LXXV.

WHERE the wild woods and pathless forests frown,
The darkling Pilgrim seeks his unknown way,
Till on the grass he throws him weary down,
To wait in broken sleep the dawn of day:
Through boughs just waving in the silent air,
With pale capricious light the summer moon
Chequers his humid couch; while Fancy there,
That loves to wanton in the night's deep noon,
Calls from the mossy roots and fountain edge
Fair visionary Nymphs that haunt the shade,
Or Naiads rising from the whispering sedge:
And, 'mid the beauteous group, his dear loved maid
Seems beckoning him with smiles to join the train:
Then, starting from his dream, he feels his woes again!

poem by Charlotte Smith
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The Street

Here is a long and silent street.
I walk in blackness and I stumble and fall
and rise, and I walk blind, my feet
trampling the silent stones and the dry leaves.
Someone behind me also tramples, stones, leaves:
if I slow down, he slows;
if I run, he runs I turn : nobody.
Everything dark and doorless,
only my steps aware of me,
I turning and turning among these corners
which lead forever to the street
where nobody waits for, nobody follows me,
where I pursue a man who stumbles
and rises and says when he sees me : nobody.

poem by Octavio Paz
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He and She

[HE.] I know a youth who loves a little maid -
(Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)
Silent is he, for he's modest and afraid -
(Hey, but he's timid as a youth can be!)
[SHE.] I know a maid who loves a gallant youth -
(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
SHE cannot tell him all the sad, sad truth -
(Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)
[BOTH.] Now tell me pray, and tell me true,
What in the world should the poor soul do?

[HE.] He cannot eat and he cannot sleep -
(Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)
Daily he goes for to wail - for to weep -
(Hey, but he's wretched as a youth can be!)
[SHE.] She's very thin and she's very pale -
(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
Daily she goes for to weep - for to wail -
(Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)
[BOTH.] Now tell me pray, and tell me true,
What in the world should the poor soul do?

[SHE.] If I were the youth I should offer her my name -
(Hey, but her face is a sight for to see!)
[HE.] If I were the maid I should fan his honest flame -
(Hey, but he's bashful as a youth can be!)
[SHE.] If I were the youth I should speak to her to-day -
(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
[HE.] If I were the maid I should meet the lad half way -
(For I really do believe that timid youth will die!)
[BOTH.] I thank you much for your counsel true;
I've learnt what that poor soul ought to do!

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Now My Heart Is Full

Theres gonna be some trouble
A whole house will need re-building
And everyone I love in the house
Will recline on an analysts couch quite
Soon
Your father cracks a joke
And in the usual way
Empties the room
Tell all of my friends
(I dont have too many
Just some rain-coated lovers puny brothers)
Dallow, spicer, pinkie, cubitt
Rush to danger
Wind up nowhere
Patric doonan - raised to wait
Im tired again, Ive tried again, and
Now my heart is full
Now my heart is full
And I just cant explain
So I wont even try to
Dallow, spicer, pinkie, cubitt
Every jammy stressford poet
Loafing oafs in all-night chemists
Loafing oafs in all-night chemists
Underact - express depression
Ah, but bunnie I loved you
I was tired again
Ive tried again, and
Now my heart is full
Now my heart is full
And I just cant explain
So I wont even try to
Could you pass by ?
Could you pass by ?
Could you pass by ?
Could you pass by ?
Could you pass by ?
Oh ...
Now my heart is full
Now my heart is full
And I just cant explain
So ... slow ...
Slow ... slow ... slow ... slow ... slow ...

song performed by by Morrissey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Can Have The TV

You can have the T.V.
I'll take the radio
Really, I don't want the T.V.
Just please the radio
I'd like that chair if you don't want it
Thank you
You keep the couch
You'll need a couch that's ok
You can keep the records
Cause it's your sterio
Really, I won't need the records
Without a sterio
I'd like the kitchen chairs and table
Thank you
You keep the bed
I'll buy a bed
That's ok
The books we can split in half
The pots and pan we'll do the same
The pictures on the wall
We can split in half
And you can have the scrabble game
The money in the bank
We can split in half
And you can have your single name
Our friends, we can split in half
And we can each have half the lane
Ok it's settled then
You can have the t.v.
I'll take the radio
Really I don't want the t.v.
Just please the radio
I'll like a lamp if you don't want it
Thank you
You keep the couch you'll need a couch
That's ok
You keep the bed, I'll buy a bed
That's ok
The dog, you keep the dog
I'll come around and see him now and then

song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Morning White Horse

If then there were moonless long nights...
And the silent horseman went, like same...
If then the horse, too, was more blackish
As homeless thoughts over sad- knight...

What the smallest birdie could do of a garden
She sang in the afternoon and night by ear her thin.
So, did light for a sympathetic the fan of red rose,
Look, morning has caught up, them, with white horse...

poem by Tsira Gogeshvili
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Silent Night

After the smoke clears
When it's down to you and I
When the sun appears
And there's nothing left but goodbyes
We'll just turn and walk away
How could we let it end like this
Just turn and walk away
Should we seal it with a kiss

It's too late
Now you're out and on the run
It's too late
Held up in love without a gun

Silent night
We hold up our candle light
Silent night
The night our love died

song performed by by Bon Jovi from 7800 Degrees Fahrenheit
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Horse and Rider

The prairie blows the grasses
And whips the horse’s mane.
They travel, horse and rider,
Through the sea of amber grain

Hills roll by, and clouds pass
But steady are the horse’s hooves
Upon the wind blown grass
As they travel, horse and rider

There is no trail that they follow
No path that can be seen
There they travel, horse and rider
Upon the endless blowing green

poem by Horse Poet
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Epithalamium

A bee in the field. The house on the mountain
reveals itself to have been there through summer.
It's not a bee but a horse eating frosted grass
in the yawn light. Secrets, the anguish of smoke
above the chimney as it shreds what it's learned
of fire. The horse has moved, it's not a horse
but a woman doing the stations of the cross
with a dead baby in her arms. The anguish of the house
as it reveals smoke to the mountain. A woman
eating cold grass in Your name, shredding herself
like fire. The woman has stopped, it's not a woman
but smoke on its knees keeping secrets in what it reveals.
The everything has moved, it's not everything
but a shredding of the anguish of names. The marriage
of light: particle to wave. Do you take? I do.

poem by Bob Hicok
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Pink City

Burnt-out myths in the old city
are stitching the lips of people.
Pink walls smell like blood.

Priest is dumb, hoisting the headless
deity on throne. Marigolds
are soaked in flowing tears.

Innocent wheels riding against blast,
stand still to measure
the half-life of seizures.

Cult was spreading in place,
fingers and cells Dynasties inheriting
the bleached fathers.

The ages rot under the sculptors.
We walk on water, wordless, sightless
for the thin hope.

poem by Satish Verma
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Horse and Rider

The prairie blows the grasses
And whips the horse’s mane.
They travel, horse and rider,
Through the sea of amber grain

Hills roll by, and clouds pass
But steady are the horse’s hooves
Upon the wind blown grass
As they travel, horse and rider

There is no trail that they follow
No path that can be seen
There they travel, horse and rider
Upon the endless blowing green

poem by Ivy Schex
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Walk Through The Fire

Walk through the fire
Walk through the fire (walk through the fire)
Through the dust and ashes
While the building crashes
Walk through the flame (walk through the fire)
No trace of indecision
Lion keep his vision clear
Moving out
Across the water
The wet leaves quiver in the heat
Darkness heavy on my shoulder
Smell the smoke, sickly sweet
The bodys weak, the shadows strong
Walk through the fire (walk through the fire)
Through the dust and ashes
While the building crashes
Walk through the flame (walk through the fire)
Lion show no sign of fear
Walk through the fire (walk through the fire)
Through the dust and ashes
While the building crashes
Walk through the flame (walk through the fire)
No time for doubt or caution
Taken by the strong emotion
Walk through the fire (walk through the fire)
No trace of indecision
Lion hold his vision clear
(walk, walk, walk)
Walk through the fire (walk through the fire)
Walking in the path of angel
Walk on down below, walk on down below
Walk on down below, walk on down below

song performed by by Peter Gabriel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eve

Eve, with her basket, was
Deep in the bells and grass,
Wading in bells and grass
Up to her knees,
Picking a dish of sweet
Berries and plums to eat,
Down in the bell and grass
Under the trees.
Mute as a mouse in a
Corner the cobra lay,
Circled round a bough of the
Cinnamon tall. . . .
Now to get even and
Humble proud heaven and
Now was the moment or
Never at all.
'Eva!' Each syllable
Light as a flower fell,
'Eva!' he whispered the
Wondering maid,
Soft as a bubble sung
Out of a linnet's lung,
Soft and most silverly
'Eva!' he said.
Picture that orchard sprite,
Eve, with her body white,
Supple and smooth to her
Slim finger tips.
Wondering, listening,
Listening, wondering,
Eve with a berry
Half-way to her lips.
Oh had our simple Eve
Seen through the make-believe!
Had she but known the
Pretender he was!
Out of the boughs he came,
Whispering still her name,
Tumbling in twenty rings
Into the grass.
Here was the strangest pair
In the world anywhere,
Eve in the bells and grass
Kneeling, and he
Telling the story low. . . .
Singing birds saw them go
Down the dark path to
The Blasphemous Tree.
O what a clatter when
Titmouse and Jenny Wren
Saw him successful and
Taking his leave!
How the birds rated him,
How they all hated him!
How they all pitied
Poor motherless Eve!
Picture her crying
Outside in the lane,
Eve, with no dish of sweet
Berries and plums to eat,
Haunting the gate of the
Orchard in vain. . . .
Picture the lewd delight
Under the hill to-night -
'Eva!' the toast goes round,
'Eva!' again.

poem by Ralph Hodgson
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Crimson

Crimson is the slow smolder of the cigar end I hold,
Gray is the ash that stiffens and covers all silent the fire.
(A great man I know is dead and while he lies in his coffin a gone flame I sit here in cumbering shadows and smoke and watch my thoughts come and go.)

poem by Carl Sandburg
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Silence

Silent the whole lot in silent space
Who art Thou silent in silence

Yonder beyond yonder in silent spirits
Thou bang banged in silence
Silent Thou persona unseen, unknown in silence
Yet smelt in silent thoughts
Thou taste, Thou fragrance nonfigurative
Yet figurative in tentative five elements
Fundamental who, what, how, why, where, when, ..
A mysterious quantum in perptual unfound answer
Ceaselessly in ceaseless silence

Silent the whole lot in silent space
Who art Thou silent in silence

poem by Indira Renganathan
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The Black Horse Rider

For George Anthell

Between them is the land of broken colors,
the land that makes a mock of him
with miles.
He rides, he rides,
he passes through the flat
chrome wheatfields
cut by the plough of the river makers.

The hills are aslant,
the clay torsos, the hills,
the clay has a red wound,
it gapes.
The white roots cry,
there is a mute susurrus in the dark:
poppies, poppies are you not
their pain?

With hoof on flint and flint
the black horse
rides: black wind, black
against fire.

The black horse crooks his
forelegs, the hills split open,
his nostrils pour flame.
Snort, snort through miles,
O charger, through rock.

He drinks the mezas,
he burns his thin knees over
braziers of grass:
Ride, ride.

Sky is spilt water,
a silver hello is flung
from star to star.
Black horse breaks
fire underfoot and now
his mane is a burnt city,
his mouth churned ocean,
foam on his belly a constellation.

At last he tramples
the sand
behemoth
Asleep before the sea.

poem by Pierre Loving
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The Churchyard

HOW slowly creeps the hand of Time
On the old clock’s green-mantled face!
Yea, slowly as those ivies climb,
The hours roll round with patient pace;
The drowsy rooks caw on the tower,
The tame doves hover round and round;
Below, the slow grass hour by hour
Makes green God’s sleeping-ground.

All moves, but nothing here is swift;
The grass grows deep, the green boughs shoot;
From east to west the shadows drift;
The earth feels heavenward underfoot;
The slow stream through the bridge doth stray
With water-lilies on its marge,
And slowly, pil’d with scented hay,
Creeps by the silent barge.

All stirs, but nothing here is loud:
The cushat broods, the cuckoo cries;
Faint, far up, under a white cloud,
The lark trills soft to earth and skies;
And underneath the green graves rest;
And through the place, with slow footfalls,
With snowy cambric on his breast,
The old gray Vicar crawls.

And close at hand, to see him come,
Clustering at the playground gate,
The urchins of the schoolhouse, dumb
And bashful, hang the head and wait;
The little maidens curtsey deep,
The boys their forelocks touch meanwhile,
The Vicar sees them, half asleep,
And smiles a sleepy smile.

Slow as the hand on the clock’s face,
Slow as the white cloud in the sky,
He cometh now with tottering pace
To the old vicarage hard by:
Smother’d it stands in ivy leaves,
Laurels and yews make dark the ground;
The swifts that build beneath the eaves
Wheel in still circles round.

And from the portal, green and dark,
He glances at the church-clock old—
Gray soul! why seek his eyes to mark
The creeping of that finger cold?
He cannot see, but still as stone
He pauses, listening for the chime,
And hears from that green tower intone
The eternal voice of Time.

poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse
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