Newark Abbey
August, 1842
with a remembrance of August, 1807
I gaze, where August's sunbeam falls
Along these grey and lonely walls,
Till in its light absorbed appears
The lapse of five-and-thirty years.
If change there be, I trace it not
In all this consecrated spot:
No new imprint of Ruin's march
On roofless wall and frameless arch:
The hilss, the woods, the fields, the stream,
Are basking in the self-same beam:
The fall, that turns the unseen mill
As then it murmured, murmurs still:
It seems, as if in one were cast
The present and the imaged past,
Spanning, as with bridge sublime,
That awful lapse of human time,
That gulph, unfathomably spread
Between the living and the dead.
For all too well my spirit feels
The only change this place reveals:
The sunbeams play, the breezes stir,
Unseen, unfelt, unheard by her,
Who, on that long-past August day,
First saw with me those ruins grey.
Whatever span the fates allow,
Ere I shall be as she is now,
Still in my bosom's inmost cell
Shall that deep-treasured memory dwell:
That, more than language can express,
Pure miracle of loveliness,
Whose voice so sweet, whose eyes so bright,
Were my soul's music, and its light,
In those blest days, when life was new,
And hope was false, but love was true.
poem by Thomas Love Peacock
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Related quotes
My little august bloom
My little august bloom
I will always love you
Even when I am feeling blue
Where ever you may be
I will be there next to you
I will always love you
My little august bloom
If you ever cry
I can see it in the sky
I will light a candle for you
My little august bloom
Every breath that I take
I take it just for you
I wish that I was there with you
My little august bloom
You will always be the light
That warms my coldest nights
You shine bright within my eyes
The only reason for my life
My little august bloom
I am so in love with you
Nick Kler
Do Not Ask
Don’t remind the August sky
how you used to love July,
and even if you should remember
August skies when it’s September,
don’t brood on them, for they have gone,
and you should only dwell upon
the skies that you see now above.
It’s just the same, of course, with love;
what love you may have lost is not
what you should think of, hot to trot
with someone new who takes your fancy.
It’s not a sign of sycophancy
to tell her that you’ve never seen
a girl more beautiful, or been
more happy than you are with her.
Forget the past which, de rigueur,
is just the past, and don’t see shrouds
in skies where there are sometimes clouds.
What's past you must forget and bury;
look up, ahead and now be merry!
Inspired by the lyrics of “Many a New Day, ” quoted in John Steele Gordon’s review of “The Complete Lyrics of Oscar Hammerstein II, ” edited by Amy Asch (“Getting to Know You, Mr. Hammerstein, ” NYT, December 25,2008) :
Many a light lad may kiss and fly,
A kiss gone by is bygone.
Never’ve I asked an August sky, 'Where has last July gone? '
Never’ve I wandered through the rye, wondering where has some
guy gone;
Many a new day will dawn before I do!
12/25/08
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Light From The Creator
// light from the creator //
Let there be light
In the inner soul
In the eyes, into the blood
Light, light, Light, light, Light, light
Light every where in the body,
Light, light in the vein,
In the brain, in the present
To enlighten the darkness
In the deep darken hearts,
Light comes Light comes
To cross the light years.
Light comes to align with
The whole Universe.
21 august,2012, bb.
poem by Baki Nasrullah
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August....
August is the month for kids it’s the last few weeks of freedom before a new school year begins.
August is the month where many parents are excited that its here cause they don’t want their kids home alone.
August is the last month before fall begins.
August is the only month that has fewer holidays than most months.
August is the month where most teens are happy because it means that it’s the last school year for most.
August is the month that I really don’t care for but I also like as well.
poem by Natasha Ligons
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The Holocaust Song (August 6th, '45.)
8-15 Tuesday morning
a burning flash dissolved the skies,
death reigned without warning...
August 6th, '45.
In a lightning crash of frozen moment,
thousands were incinerated and scourged alive;
firewinds flayed through paper houses...
August 6th, '45.
People cauterized to the melting earth,
their scalding blood, their flesh that fried:
they were the lucky ones...
August 6th, '45.
Who put the horror in Hiroshima?
Who wrote shock on the human eye?
Who etched terror onto mankind's future
that August 6th, '45?
Across the warscape of that flattened city
women stumbled too numb to cry,
their skin pulped with boiling blisters...
August 6th, '45.
Lines of shuffling, staring figures
too stunned and sick to wonder why,
their faces shocked but past all panic...
August 6th, '45.
People peeled like red bananas,
those people lived but quickly died;
skin that hung like paper streamers...
August 6th, '45.
Who put the horror in Hiroshima?
Who permitted genocide?
Who sanctioned that mad disaster
on August 6th, '45.
Lurching beings like lifeless corpses
silhouette an ashen sky;
they wandered, abject, without purpose...
August 6th, '45.
Whose pride murdered Nagasaki?
Whose decision prepared the lies?
Were they doomed or just unlucky
that August day, '45?
Escape's denied to all survivors,
cancers haunt them till the day they die.
And their heirs will curse the craven authors
of August 6th, '45.
poem by David SmithWhite
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Dream tryst
The breaths of kissing night and day
Were mingled in the eastern Heaven,
Throbbing with unheard melody,
Shook Lyra all its star-cloud seven.
When dusk shrank cold, and light trod shy,
And dawn's grey eyes were troubled grey;
And souls went palely up to the sky,
And mine to Lucidè,
There was no change in her sweet eyes
Since last I saw those sweet eyes shine;
There was no change in her deep heart
Since last that deep heart knocked at mine.
Her eyes were clear, her eyes were Hope's,
Wherein did ever come and go;
The sparkle of the fountain drops
From her sweet soul below.
The chambers in the house of dream
Are fed with so divine an air,
That Time's hoar wings grow young therein,
And they who walk there are most fair.
I joyed for me, I joyed for her,
Who with the Past meet girt about:
Where her last kiss still warms the air,
Nor can her eyes go out.
poem by Francis Thompson
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August 05
M) The month of August
In the summer of 2005
In June I turned 18
My best friend moved back in state
In April I got a girlfriend since our first date
I met her last August
Later that year went to dust
H) I received a call on a hot summer day
The mood went a different way
She sounded like she cried
Like someone or something died
M) We started to change
Said I had become strange
We started to change
Hands against the wall
H) You wanted to escape
Cried, a victim of rape
I offered my help
M) What happened to the past?
A time that didn’t last
We changed too fast
H) You wanted to die
Then started to cry
I said I would help
You fought against the pain
Didn’t let your life dwain
You didn’t go insane
You won against the pain
M) Close to one year
Faced another fear
I broke your heart
I tore us apart
You chose a different fate
Tried to save us too late
I know there is nothing to save
I will bare this to my grave
H) M) I failed and succeeded
Helped you through his crime
We died in our prime
We are separate now
We were not meant to last
And you excepted your past
August 31,2005
My problem= M) helping her=H)
poem by Isaac Helms
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August 7, 4: 15
J. bon jovi
It was another day
A perfect texas afternoon
A mother and two children play
The way they always do
As they raced home from the mailbox
A mother and her son
Against a little girl of 6 years old
The independant one
The deputies went door to door
Through all the neighborhood
They said I got some news to tell you folks
Im afraid it aint so good
Somehow something happened
Someone got away
Someone got the answers for what happened here today
Oh no, oh no, oh no, no, no, no
Tell me it was just a dream - august 7 4:15
God closed his eyes and the world got mean
August 7 4:15
Now the people from the papers and the local tv news
Tried to find the reason
Cop dogs sniffed around for clues
Someone shouted hit and run
The coroner cried foul
Her blue dress was what she wore
The day they laid her body down
Oh no, oh no, oh no, no, no, no
Tell me it was just a dream - august 7 4:15
God closed his eyes and the world got mean
August 7 4:15
I know tonight that theres an angel
Up on heavens highest hill
And no one there can hurt you baby
No one ever will
Somewhere someones conscience is like a burning bed
The flames are all around you
How you gonna sleep again
Oh no, oh no, oh no, no, no, no
Tell me it was just a dream - august 7 4:15
God closed his eyes and the world got mean
August 7 4:15
song performed by by Bon Jovi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Warm August Day In Old Duhallow
A warm August day in old Duhallow far north of here and miles away
And swallows high o'er sunlit meadows scenting sweetly of mown hay
And songbirds silent on the hedgerows in Summer you seldom hear them sing
they always pipe their finest in the prime months of the Spring.
A warm day in August in the fields of Knocknagree
And old gray faced rook is cawing on high branch of elm tree
And the magpie he is chattering as into the grove he fly
From once seen and heard he's one that's not hard to identify.
A warm day by Clara mountain by the old Town of Millstreet
And the skylark is not singing o'er the bracken in the heat
In the warm days of late Summer he doesn't feel the urge to fly
High above the sunlit mountain for to carol in the sky.
A warm day in August and the drains of water dry
And the old man says often in August I've seen water flowing bank high
And the long range weather forecast is the weather will be fine
And that at least another fortnight of warm days and sunshine.
A warm August day in Duhallow and the farmer in short sleeves
And the temperatures quite pleasant around 25 degrees
Still it can't be very long now till the cool winds of change blow
And the Paps and Caherbarnagh will be in their hats of snow.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Long Ago
I’d like to speak of this memory…
but it’s so faded now…as though nothing is left—
because it was so long ago, in my early adolescent years.
A skin as though of jasmines…
that August evening— was it August?—
I can still just recall the eyes: blue, I think they were…
Ah yes, blue: a sapphire blue.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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The Autumn Is Coming
The autumn is coming,
The August is charming,
But the rain often darkens the sky,
And I know, you certainly love me
As I once long ago loved you.
Why the yearning
Is burning inside you?
Why are you so sad when with me?
Why in August the dreams
Can't be sweet as in spring?
The rowan is reddish
But not for the anguish
Rain drops knock at the window today
What a pity that some grievances
Can't be forgotten by loving hearts.
Not in vain
The yearning is burning,
Not in vain you are sad when with me
As in August the dreams are not real,
They come true in the earliest spring.
The autumn is coming,
The August is charming,
But the rain often darkens the sky,
And I know, you certainly love me
As I once long ago loved you.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
The 28th of August,2012
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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SonnetXLVII. To G.W.C.
STILL shines our August day, as calm, as bright
As when, long years ago, we sailied away
Down the blue Narrows and the widening bay
Into the wrinkling ocean's flashing light;
And the whole universe of sound and sight
Repeats the radiance of that festal day.
But for the inward eye no power can stay
The fleeting splendor of our youth's delight.
Still shines our August day, — but not for me
The old enchantment, — when, by care and sorrow
Untried, the hopeful heart was ever free
To greet the morn as herald of like morrow.
Yet shine, fair day! And let my soul from thee
Hope, faith, and strength for life's dim future borrow.
poem by Christopher Pearse Cranch
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I Remember August
I remember August:
that breathy space before fall;
the long slow arc of the sun
touching the northern horizon.
I remember August:
its dampness confined to fog
pulled along the seashore's edge
and into the bays and rivers.
I remember
silent waves rocking small stones:
shifting, slipping, and sliding
sibilant sighs and whisperings.
I remember
the hay lying cut and straight,
drying in the summer sun
waiting for the baler to come.
I remember August:
with the soft shade and shadows,
and the long hours of twilight
creeping slowly toward the night.
On this October rain day
I remember August.
The Baptistry
One winter eve, at twilight, when the sound
Of sorrowful winds scarce troubled Nature's rest,
As she lay sleeping, with her hair unbound,
Holding her grey robe to her shivering breast,
I enter'd through a low-arch'd oaken door,
Circled with curious sculpture; and I crept
With slow, hush'd footsteps, o'er the shadow'd floor,
Where organ notes in sudden silence slept;
Far down the aisle, where darkness seem'd to brood
With such wide-spreading wings, and where the sigh
Of murmur'd prayer scarce came,—until I stood
In the deep stillness of the Baptistry.
There, in the dim side-chapel, no bright glow
From jewelled windows on the wall was shed;
No sunbeams rested on the font below,
Or kiss'd those mighty arches overhead.
Soft lines and curves went upward, and were lost
In solemn shadow and in dreamy space;
Only the level floor was faintly crost
With glimmering brightness from the holy place.
And, as I listen'd, I heard music sweet
Trembling and swelling through the soundless air,
Threading dark aisles, as if an angel's feet
Were bidden bring God's message to me there.
Ah! and the echo of those anthem notes
Wanders and whispers in my heart for aye:
In all my life the mystic language floats,
Fitful and faint, as in my ears that day.
One whom we knew had enter'd into rest—
Calm on the pillow lay his hoary head;
And through that music spoke, in accents blest,
Our holy Mother's voice, hallowing the dead,
Telling of perfect peace, of labours done,
Of long years' sorrow turned to joy at last—
The quiet sleep, when battles all are won—
The hush of evening when the day is past.
I look'd upon the font, and mused of all
Its wondrous meaning, till my thoughts grew dim
And vast and shadowy as those columns tall;—
Morning of life for me—death's night for him!
How fancy tried to span that awful space
Between the two—between the here and there!
To bridge the nave—up to that blessed Place
Where light and song stream'd on the chancel-stair!
Dim recollections drifted through my brain—
Echoing footfalls of past childish years,
When the baptismal robe had less of stain,
E'en though unwash'd by penitential tears.
I saw the gloomy shadows o'er my head,
And sigh'd to think how I had suffer'd loss;
I saw the soft light, and was comforted,—
I knew it shone straight from the chancel-cross.
A few more steps, and then I stood below
The towering minster coronet again;
Down on my face that pure and gentle glow
Fell, like a pitying kiss in time of pain.
Down to my feet it stream'd; a passage dim,
With hosts of phantom-shapes on either side,
It drifted through;—as songs of seraphim
Drift through our mourning hearts at Easter-tide.
Looking up then, I seem'd to see my life,—
A long, dim vista, where the rays descend—
Where light and darkness wage continual strife;
But only light—the full light—at the end.
poem by Ada Cambridge
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Time Long Past
Like the ghost of a dear friend dead
Is Time long past.
A tone which is now forever fled,
A hope which is now forever past,
A love so sweet it could not last,
Was Time long past.
There were sweet dreams in the night
Of Time long past:
And, was it sadness or delight,
Each day a shadow onward cast
Which made us wish it yet might last--
That Time long past.
There is regret, almost remorse,
For Time long past.
'Tis like a child's belovèd corse
A father watches, till at last
Beauty is like remembrance, cast
From Time long past.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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12th August
You are my august lady who visited me on the 12th of August,
And the abosolute proof of your love cannot be denied!
For you met what you wanted on this date.
She was as sweet as the apples and,
She motivated me to move on;
For she was like the wealth of a Nation.
Oh yes, the promised land was occupied by her love;
And she had enough from what she wanted.
From Winneba to Accra and from the realms of love,
For she was hoping for something great on this date!
And there it was with her nakedness on 12th August;
With no opinionated controversy like, a boat on the deep blue sea.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Secret Life Of Bees
my memories call to me, the sight of my mother plays in my head.
T-ray doesn't speak of her
When he does he just says that she left me
so i ran away with rosaleen
I sure did.Stole her right outta the hospital before they put her back in jail.
i found myself in a small town Tiburon, South Carolina
looking for clues that my mother had been there
living with the calendar sisters (may, june and august)
Pretending to be someone I'm not headed to place I'm certain I'm not going.
The honey makers, as they are called
honey, honey, honey is used for everything
June played for the dead, while May mourned for them.
May was the world's twin, feeling the pain of everybody
Her wailing wall was full of notes I bet some where for june and neil
sorrow grabs a hold of the house
When Zack's arrested for throwing a bottle, May couldn't take it.
Till we found out that the river how it claimed her life.
A letter is all that's left
For may: May she find peace in god's arms
A sign was all need to know I was loved by her.
I finally told August the truth, and she told me the answer to the questions.
August gave me my mother's things
There was my sign
But my peace didn't last long
Then all of a sudden the devil himself was on the doorstep
Living in the past; he grabbed my hair and tried to yank me out.
After I learned the truth about my mother and the way T. Ray used to be
And seeing him now. the only question i had for him now was aboout my question, as i watched him drive
thats when august, june, rosaleen and the daughters of mary, they became my new family and that's how it will stay/
poem by Tatiana Enriquez
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In Memory of John Fairfax
Because this man fulfilled his days,
Like one who walks with steadfast gaze
Averted from forbidden ways
With lures of fair, false flowerage deep,
Behold the Lord whose throne is dim
With fires of flaming seraphim—
The Christ that suffered sent for him:
“He giveth His beloved sleep.”
Think not that souls whose deeds august
Put sin to shame and make men just
Become at last the helpless dust
That wintering winds through waste-lands sweep!
The higher life within us cries,
Like some fine spirit from the skies,
“The Father’s blessing on us lies—
‘He giveth His beloved sleep.’”
Not human sleep—the fitful rest
With evil shapes of dreams distressed,—
But perfect quiet, unexpressed
By any worldly word we keep.
The dim Hereafter framed in creeds
May not be this; but He who reads
Our lives, sets flowers on wayside weeds—
“He giveth His beloved sleep.”
Be sure this hero who has passed
The human space—the outer vast—
Who worked in harness to the last,
Doth now a hallowed harvest reap.
Love sees his grave, nor turns away—
The eyes of faith are like the day,
And grief has not a word to say—
“He giveth His beloved sleep.”
That fair, rare spirit, Honour, throws
A light, which puts to shame the rose,
Across his grave, because she knows
The son whose ashes it doth keep;
And, like far music, this is heard—
“Behold the man who never stirred,
By word of his, an angry word!—
‘He giveth His beloved sleep.’”
He earned his place. Within his hands,
The power which counsels and commands,
And shapes the social life of lands,
Became a blessing pure and deep.
Through thirty years of turbulence
Our thoughts were sweetened with a sense
Of his benignant influence—
“He giveth His beloved sleep.”
No splendid talents, which excite
Like music, songs, or floods of light,
Were his; but, rather, all those bright,
Calm qualities of soul which reap
A mute, but certain, fine respect,
Not only from a source elect,
But from the hearts of every sect—
“He giveth His beloved sleep.”
He giveth His beloved rest!
The faithful soul that onward pressed,
Unswerving, from Life’s east to west,
By paths austere and passes steep,
Is past all toil; and, over Death,
With reverent hands and prayerful breath,
I plant this flower, alive with faith—
“He giveth His beloved sleep.”
poem by Henry Kendall
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Song Of August!
August tunes and replays
a tearful song from the heart
of Hiroshima and Nagasaki
and monsoon droplets
resonate that heartfelt song
on the strings of August.......
August 2,2009
poem by Rema Prasanaa
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August is the dying month
August is the dying month
When hot July struggles to keep her hold
Moving toward a hopeless chilled September
Pretending to be summer
As if children heading back to school stir the cold from the sky
It is a refined deceiver
August is a butterfly crushed on a roadway
One side dead to the pavement
The other is still vibrantly flutteringly alive
Fighting to fly away but it’s fate is already sealed
It is a delicate executioner
August is the month colors trickle from trees
A first leaf unnoticed tumbles
Sheepishly the others will shortly follow
Shamefully they will drift to the ground
It is a subtle destroyer
August is 6 PM
The disillusion of a day realized
Dinners to be eaten alone
Murky dark mixes with the daylight
Spitting out gloomy gray
It is a sophisticated betrayer
August is the death rattle
Demise by means of a Fall
Stealing gaped mouth last breaths
Swallowing everything into its earth
Coughing back a cold winter in return.
poem by Wanda Swim Strunk
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