The Meeting of the Waters
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh! no, -- it was something more exquisite still.
'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.
poem by Thomas Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Return To Nature
Suppose I am one who has a big ego I did have big plans once I do recall
But egos are a thing that inspire in us the need for success and are part of human nature after all
And now that my ego is a bit deflated and others I don't feel need to impress
Something perhaps that came with the realization that my life never has been a success.
Still I am one who finds solace in Nature and Nature the only God of which I know
I've always marvelled at her strength and beauty and still my admiration for her only grow
I had a church God when I was years younger but I gave my unseen church God away
And I returned again to Mother Nature and in her bosom I will rest one day.
The free born birds that sing in Nature's garden each species is distinctive by their song
And the fox that hunts for rabbits in the paddocks these creatures all to Nature's World belong
And the wedge tailed eagle soaring in the calm sky a very large and fearless bird of prey
Too is a part of Mother Nature's World and in Nature's bosom this bird's bones too will lay.
The swallows fly to warm climes in Winter and return home to greet the warmth of Spring
And chase insects o'er the valley where they first saw daylight and as they fly one hear them chirp and sing
How they can find their way to a far Country in late Fall and in the Spring find their way home again
Is something for which scientists can offer theories yet somehow seems beyond them to explain.
The World is quieter in Mother Nature's World for man made noise to Nature doesn't belong
On sunlit tree beside the rippling waters the thrush in Spring is singing all day long
And Nature she presides o'er all her Seasons and she has seen so many Seasons come and go
Her flowers of Spring and Summer and her brown leaves of Autumn and her hills of Winter wear white hats of snow.
I do not worship false Gods any longer and I returned to Nature years ago
And though Mother Nature has so much to teach us so little about her I seem to know
Yet I feel happy to walk in her garden and along the bank of her quiet water way
'Twas an act of Nature brought me to this World and I'll return to her bosom one day.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To the River Charles
River! that in silence windest
Through the meadows, bright and free,
Till at length thy rest thou findest
In the bosom of the sea!
Four long years of mingled feeling,
Half in rest, and half in strife,
I have seen thy waters stealing
Onward, like the stream of life.
Thou hast taught me, Silent River!
Many a lesson, deep and long;
Thou hast been a generous giver;
I can give thee but a song.
Oft in sadness and in illness,
I have watched thy current glide,
Till the beauty of its stillness
Overflowed me, like a tide.
And in better hours and brighter,
When I saw thy waters gleam,
I have felt my heart beat lighter,
And leap onward with thy stream.
Not for this alone I love thee,
Nor because thy waves of blue
From celestial seas above thee
Take their own celestial hue.
Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,
And thy waters disappear,
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee,
And have made thy margin dear.
More than this;--thy name reminds me
Of three friends, all true and tried;
And that name, like magic, binds me
Closer, closer to thy side.
Friends my soul with joy remembers!
How like quivering flames they start,
When I fan the living embers
On the hearth-stone of my heart!
'T is for this, thou Silent River!
That my spirit leans to thee;
Thou hast been a generous giver,
Take this idle song from me.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Sleep Of Spring
O for that sweet, untroubled rest
That poets oft have sung!--
The babe upon its mother's breast,
The bird upon its young,
The heart asleep without a pain--
When shall I know that sleep again?
When shall I be as I have been
Upon my mother's breast
Sweet Nature's garb of verdant green
To woo to perfect rest--
Love in the meadow, field, and glen,
And in my native wilds again?
The sheep within the fallow field,
The herd upon the green,
The larks that in the thistle shield,
And pipe from morn to e'en--
O for the pasture, fields, and fen!
When shall I see such rest again?
I love the weeds along the fen,
More sweet than garden flowers,
For freedom haunts the humble glen
That blest my happiest hours.
Here prison injures health and me:
I love sweet freedom and the free.
The crows upon the swelling hills,
The cows upon the lea,
Sheep feeding by the pasture rills,
Are ever dear to me,
Because sweet freedom is their mate,
While I am lone and desolate.
I loved the winds when I was young,
When life was dear to me;
I loved the song which Nature sung,
Endearing liberty;
I loved the wood, the vale, the stream,
For there my boyhood used to dream.
There even toil itself was play;
Twas pleasure een to weep;
Twas joy to think of dreams by day,
The beautiful of sleep.
When shall I see the wood and plain,
And dream those happy dreams again?
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To dear KASTHURI-Oh! Almighty-Poem-3
To my friend
KASTHURI
POEM-3
OH! ALMIGHTY
You blew life into this frame
And moulded me to carve a name
Before I could ask for it.
Me you sowed among parents so good
And gave sisters and brother as best as you could
Before I could ask for it.
With education and interest wide, me you blessed
With love and kindness, my heart you pressed
Before I could ask for it.
You granted me an eye to enjoy beauty,
And a heart to wonder at Nature's bounty,
Before I could ask for it.
In the serene waters, of family love, me you set sail,
With sweet children as four oars, who ne'er fail,
Before I could ask for it.
Not these alone, but things many more,
For this poor earthling You have set in store,
Before I could ask for it.
But that bosom friend, that dear Kasthuri,
From me You've snatched, in such a hurry,
Though I entreated You for her!
Why so my dear Lord Almighty?
.
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Quantum Est Quod Desit
'Twas a new feeling - something more
Than we had dar'd to own before,
Which then we hid not;
We saw it in each other's eye,
And wish'd in every broken sigh
To speak, but did not!
She felt my lips' impassion'd touch;
'Twas the first time I dar'd so much,
And yet, she chid not;
But whisper'd o'er my burning brow,
'Oh! do you doubt I love you now?'
Sweet soul! I did not!
Warmly I felt her bosom thrill,
I prest it closer, closer still,
Though gently bid not;
Till - oh! the world hath seldom heard
Of lovers, who so nearly err'd,
And yet who - did not!
poem by Thomas Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Feel Like A Leaf In Autumn
I feel like a leaf in Autumn borne along by flooded rill
Running down the silent valley down along the moonlit hill
Down to join the flooded river towards it's final destiny
To it's deep grave in salt water in the bosom of the sea.
I felt like that leaf in Springtime on it's lovely mother tree
With it's brothers and it's sisters one big happy family
A bright green leaf in a green World dancing in the wind and rain
Give me back what's gone forever give me back my youth again.
I felt like that leaf in Summer when the sun shone in the sky
And the world was full of colour and wild songbirds piped for joy
And bright wildflowers in green meadow fit home for fair butterfly
Oh but all that's young and beautiful has one day got to die.
I feel like a leaf in Autumn borne along by flooded stream
Running down the moonlit valley that was once so very green
Down to join the flooded river towards it's final destiny
To be gone and lost forever in the bosom of the sea.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To Jane: The Recollection
I.
Now the last day of many days,
All beautiful and bright as thou,
The loveliest and the last, is dead,
Rise, Memory, and write its praise!
Up,--to thy wonted work! come, trace
The epitaph of glory fled,--
For now the Earth has changed its face,
A frown is on the Heaven’s brow.
II.
We wandered to the Pine Forest
That skirts the Ocean’s foam,
The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.
The whispering waves were half asleep,
The clouds were gone to play,
And on the bosom of the deep
The smile of Heaven lay;
It seemed as if the hour were one
Sent from beyond the skies,
Which scattered from above the sun
A light of Paradise.
III.
We paused amid the pines that stood
The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
As serpents interlaced;
And, soothed by every azure breath,
That under Heaven is blown,
To harmonies and hues beneath,
As tender as its own,
Now all the tree-tops lay asleep,
Like green waves on the sea,
As still as in the silent deep
The ocean woods may be.
IV.
How calm it was!—the silence there
By such a chain was bound
That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller by her sound
The inviolable quietness;
The breath of peace we drew
With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew.
There seemed from the remotest seat
Of the white mountain waste,
To the soft flower beneath our feet,
A magic circle traced,--
A spirit interfused around
A thrilling, silent life,--
To momentary peace it bound
Our mortal nature’s strife;
And still I felt the centre of
The magic circle there
Was one fair form that filled with love
The lifeless atmosphere.
V.
We paused beside the pools that lie
Under the forest bough,--
Each seemed as ’twere a little sky
Gulfed in a world below;
A firmament of purple light
Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night,
And purer than the day--
In which the lovely forests grew,
As in the upper air,
More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any spreading there.
There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn,
And through the dark green wood
The white sun twinkling like the dawn
Out of a speckled cloud.
Sweet views which in our world above
Can never well be seen,
Were imaged by the water’s love
Of that fair forest green.
And all was interfused beneath
With an Elysian glow,
An atmosphere without a breath,
A softer day below.
Like one beloved the scene had lent
To the dark water’s breast,
Its every leaf and lineament
With more than truth expressed;
Until an envious wind crept by,
Like an unwelcome thought,
Which from the mind’s too faithful eye
Blots one dear image out.
Though thou art ever fair and kind,
The forests ever green,
Less oft is peace in Shelley’s mind,
Than calm in waters, seen.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Highland Mary
YE banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o’ Montgomery!
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie:
There Simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last Farewell
O’ my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloom’d the gay, green birk,
How rich the hawthorn’s blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasp’d her to my bosom!
The golden Hours on angel wings,
Flew o’er me and my Dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi’ mony a vow, and lock’d embrace,
Our parting was fu’ tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But oh! fell Death’s untimely frost,
That nipt my Flower sae early!
Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay
That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss’d sae fondly!
And clos’d for aye, the sparkling glance
That dwalt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo’ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom’s core
Shall live my Highland Mary.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
The Pine Forest Of The Cascine Near Pisa
Dearest, best and brightest,
Come away,
To the woods and to the fields!
Dearer than this fairest day
Which, like thee to those in sorrow,
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
To the rough Year just awake
In its cradle in the brake.
The eldest of the Hours of Spring,
Into the Winter wandering,
Looks upon the leafless wood,
And the banks all bare and rude;
Found, it seems, this halcyon Morn
In February’s bosom born,
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,
Kissed the cold forehead of the Earth,
And smiled upon the silent sea,
And bade the frozen streams be free;
And waked to music all the fountains,
And breathed upon the rigid mountains,
And made the wintry world appear
Like one on whom thou smilest, Dear.
Radiant Sister of the Day,
Awake! arise! and come away!
To the wild woods and the plains,
To the pools where winter rains
Image all the roof of leaves,
Where the pine its garland weaves
Sapless, gray, and ivy dun
Round stems that never kiss the sun--
To the sandhills of the sea,
Where the earliest violets be.
Now the last day of many days,
All beautiful and bright as thou,
The loveliest and the last, is dead,
Rise, Memory, and write its praise!
And do thy wonted work and trace
The epitaph of glory fled;
For now the Earth has changed its face,
A frown is on the Heaven’s brow.
We wandered to the Pine Forest
That skirts the Ocean's foam,
The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.
The whispering waves were half asleep,
The clouds were gone to play,
And on the woods, and on the deep
The smile of Heaven lay.
It seemed as if the day were one
Sent from beyond the skies,
Which shed to earth above the sun
A light of Paradise.
We paused amid the pines that stood,
The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
With stems like serpents interlaced.
How calm it was--the silence there
By such a chain was bound,
That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller by her sound
The inviolable quietness;
The breath of peace we drew
With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew.
It seemed that from the remotest seat
Of the white mountain's waste
To the bright flower beneath our feet,
A magic circle traced;--
A spirit interfused around,
A thinking, silent life;
To momentary peace it bound
Our mortal nature’s strife;--
And still, it seemed, the centre of
The magic circle there,
Was one whose being filled with love
The breathless atmosphere.
Were not the crocuses that grew
Under that ilex-tree
As beautiful in scent and hue
As ever fed the bee?
We stood beneath the pools that lie
Under the forest bough,
And each seemed like a sky
Gulfed in a world below;
A purple firmament of light
Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night,
And clearer than the day—
In which the massy forests grew
As in the upper air,
More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any waving there.
Like one beloved the scene had lent
To the dark water's breast
Its every leaf and lineament
With that clear truth expressed;
There lay far glades and neighbouring lawn,
And through the dark green crowd
The white sun twinkling like the dawn
Under a speckled cloud.
Sweet views, which in our world above
Can never well be seen,
Were imaged by the water's love
Of that fair forest green.
And all was interfused beneath
With an Elysian air,
An atmosphere without a breath,
A silence sleeping there.
Until a wandering wind crept by,
Like an unwelcome thought,
Which from my mind's too faithful eye
Blots thy bright image out.
For thou art good and dear and kind,
The forest ever green,
But less of peace in S---'s mind,
Than calm in waters, seen.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Recluse
A fountain issuing into light
Before a marble palace, threw
To heaven its column, pure and bright,
Returning thence in showers of dew;
But soon a humbler course it took,
And glide away a nameless brook.
Flowers on its grassy margin sprang,
Flies o'er its eddying surface play'd,
Birds 'midst the alder-branches sang,
Flocks through the verdant meadows stray'd;
The weary there lay down to rest,
And there the halcyon built her nest.
'Twas beautiful to stand and watch
The fountain's crystal turn to gems,
And from the sky such colours catch
As if 'twere raining diadems;
Yet all was cold and curious art,
That charm'd the eye, but miss'd the heart.
Dearer to me the little stream
Whose unimprison'd waters run,
Wild as the changes of a dream,
By rock and glen, through shade and sun.
Its lovely links had power to bind
In welcome chains my wandering mind.
So thought I when I saw the face
By happy portraiture reveal'd
Of one adorn'd with every grace,
Her name and date from me conceal'd,
But not her story; she had been
The pride of many a splendid scene.
She cast her glory round a court,
And frolick'd in the gayest ring,
Where fashion's high-born minions sport
Like sparkling fire-flies on the wing;
But thence when love had touch'd her soul,
To nature and to truth she stole.
From din, and pageantry, and strife,
'Midst woods and mountains, vales and plains,
She treads the paths of lowly life,
Yet in a bosom-circle reigns,
No fountain scattering diamond-showers,
But the sweet streamlet watering flowers.
poem by James Montgomery
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Did Not
'Twas a new feeling - something more
Than we had dared to own before,
Which then we hid not;
We saw it in each other's eye,
And wished, in every half-breathed sigh,
To speak, but did not.
She felt my lips' impassioned touch -
'Twas the first time I dared so much,
And yet she chid not;
But whispered o'er my burning brow,
'Oh, do you doubt I love you now?'
Sweet soul! I did not.
Warmly I felt her bosom thrill,
I pressed it closer, closer still,
Though gently bid not;
Till - oh! the world hath seldom heard
Of lovers, who so nearly erred,
And yet, who did not.
poem by Thomas Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In Winter Time
How sweet it is 'neath apple-blooms to lie,
And breathe their breath!
To peep through waving branches at the sky,
To feel the zephyrs as they idle by,
And question of the brooklet what it saith!
How sweet it is to roam through the green wold
When labors cease!
To hear the tranquil tale by Nature told—
The tale that was not young, and grows not old—
To find within the heart an answering peace!
And though apart from Nature we maintain
An alien quest,
How sweet that we shall leave the strife and strain
Some blessèd morn, and wander back again,
And close our eyes, and in her bosom rest!
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Mine and Thine (1904)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
And Wilt Thou Weep When I Am Low
And wilt thou weep when I am low?
Sweet lady! speak those words again:
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so---
I would not give that bosom pain.
My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,
My blood runs coldly through my breast;
And when I perish, thou alone
Wilt sigh above my place of rest.
And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace
Doth through my cloud of anguish shine:
And for a while my sorrows cease,
To know thy heart hath felt for mine.
Oh lady! blessd be that tear---
It falls for one who cannot weep;
Such precious drops are doubly dear
To those whose eyes no tear may steep.
Sweet lady! once my heart was warm
With every feeling soft as thine;
But Beauty's self hath ceased to charm
A wretch created to repine.
Yet wilt thou weep when I am low ?
Sweet lady! speak those words again:
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so---
I would not give that bosom pain.
poem by Byron (1808)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
And Wilt Thou Weep When I Am Low?
And wilt thou weep when I am low?
Sweet lady! speak those words again:
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so--
I would not give that bosom pain.
My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,
My blood runs coldly through my breast;
And when I perish, thou alone
Wilt sigh above my place of rest.
And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace
Doth through my cloud of anguish shine:
And for a while my sorrows cease,
To know thy heart hath felt for mine.
Oh lady! blessd be that tear--
It falls for one who cannot weep;
Such precious drops are doubly dear
To those whose eyes no tear may steep.
Sweet lady! once my heart was warm
With every feeling soft as thine;
But Beauty's self hath ceased to charm
A wretch created to repine.
Yet wilt thou weep when I am low?
Sweet lady! speak those words again:
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so--
I would not give that bosom pain.
An Orphan's Lament
She's gone - and twice the summer's sun
Has gilt Regina's towers,
And melted wild Angora's snows,
And warmed Exina's bowers.
The flowerets twice on hill and dale
Have bloomed and died away,
And twice the rustling forest leaves
Have fallen to decay,
And thrice stern winter's icy hand
Has checked the river's flow,
And three times o'er the mountains thrown
His spotless robe of snow.
Two summers springs and autumns sad
Three winters cold and grey --
And is it then so long ago
That wild November day!
They say such tears as children weep
Will soon be dried away,
That childish grief however strong
Is only for a day,
And parted friends how dear soe'er
Will soon forgotten be;
It may be so with other hearts,
It is not thus with me.
My mother, thou wilt weep no more
For thou art gone above,
But can I ever cease to mourn
Thy good and fervent love?
While that was mine the world to me
Was sunshine bright and fair;
No feeling rose within my heart
But thou couldst read it there.
And thou couldst feel for all my joys
And all my childish cares
And never weary of my play
Or scorn my foolish fears.
Beneath thy sweet maternal smile
All pain and sorrow fled,
And even the very tears were sweet
Upon thy bosom shed.
Thy loss can never be repaired;
I shall not know again
While life remains, the peaceful joy
That filled my spirit then.
Where shall I find a heart like thine
While life remains to me,
And where shall I bestow the love
I ever bore for thee?
poem by Anne Brontë
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
When I Roved a Young Highlander
When I rov'd a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,
And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow!
To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath,
Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below,
Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear,
And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew,
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear;
Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in you?
Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name,--
What passion can dwell in the heart of a child?
But still I perceive an emotion the same
As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild:
One image alone on my bosom impress'd,
I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new;
And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd;
And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you.
I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide,
From mountain to mountain I bounded along;
I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide,
And heard at a distance the Highlander's song:
At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose.
No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view;
And warm to the skies my devotions arose,
For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.
I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone;
The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more;
As the last of my race, I must wither alone,
And delight but in days I have witness'd before:
Ah! splendour has raised but embitter'd my lot;
More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew:
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not forgot;
Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you.
When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky,
I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen;
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye,
I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene;
When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold,
That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue,
I think on the long, flowing ringlets of gold,
The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you.
Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains once more
Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of snow:
But while these soar above me, unchanged as before,
Will Mary be there to receive me?--ah, no!
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred!
Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu!
No home in the forest shall shelter my head,--
Ah! Mary, what home could be mine, but with you?
poem by Byron (1807)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
I Would in That Sweet Bosom Be
I would in that sweet bosom be
(O sweet it is and fair it is!)
Where no rude wind might visit me.
Because of sad austerities
I would in that sweet bosom be.
I would be ever in that heart
(O soft I knock and soft entreat her!)
Where only peace might be my part.
Austerities were all the sweeter
So I were ever in that heart.
poem by James Joyce
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Nancy of the Vale
The western sky was purpled o'er
With every pleasing ray;
And flocks reviving felt no more
The sultry heats of day;
When from an hazel's artless bower
Soft warbled Strephon's tongue;
He blest the scene, he blest the hour,
While Nancy's praise he sung.
'Let fops with fickle falsehood range
The paths of wanton love,
While weeping maids lament their change,
And sadden every grove:
'But endless blessings crown the day
I saw fair Esham's dale!
And every blessing find its way
To Nancy of the Vale.
''Twas from Avona's banks the maid
Diffused her lovely beams,
And every shining glance display'd
The Naiad of the streams.
'Soft as the wild-duck's tender young,
That float on Avon's tide;
Bright as the water-lily, sprung,
And glittering near its side
'Fresh as the bordering flowers her bloom,
Her eye all mild to view;
The little halcyon's azure plume
Was never half so blue.
'Her shape was like the reed so sleek,
So taper, strait, and fair;
Her dimpled smile, her blushing cheek,
How charming sweet they were!
'Far in the winding vale retired,
This peerless bud I found,
And shadowing rocks and woods conspired
To fence her beauties round.
'That Nature in so lone a dell
Should form a nymph so sweet!
Or Fortune to her secret cell
Conduct my wandering feet!
'Gay lordlings sought her for their bride,
But she would ne'er incline:
'Prove to your equals true,' she cried,
'As I will prove to mine.
''Tis Strephon, on the mountain's brow,
Has won my right good will;
To him I gave my plighted vow,
With him I'll climb the hill.'
'Struck with her charms and gentle truth,
I clasp'd the constant fair;
To her alone I gave my youth,
And vow my future care.
'And when this vow shall faithless prove,
Or I those charms forego;
The stream that saw our tender love,
That stream shall cease to flow.'
poem by William Shenstone
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Nora, the Maid of Killarney
Down by the beautiful Lakes of Killarney,
Off times I have met my own dear Barney,
In the sweet summer time of the year,
In the silvery moonlight so clear,
I've rambled with my sweetheart Barney,
Along the green banks of the Lakes of Killarney.
The Lakes of Killarney are most lovely to be seen
In the summer season when nature's face is green,
Especially in the beautiful silvery moonlight,
When its waters do shine like silver bright;
Such was the time when me and my Barney
Went to walk by the purty Lakes of Killarney.
My Barney was beautiful, gallant, and gay,
But, alas, he has left me and gone far away,
To that foreign country called Amerikay;
But when he returns we will get married without delay,
And again we will roam by the Lakes of Killarney,
Me and my sweetheart, charming Barney.
And until he returns I will feel rather sad,
For while walking with Barney I always felt glad;
May God send him home again safe to me,
And he will fill my sad heart with glee,
While we walk by the Lakes of Killarney.
I dreamt one night I was walking with Barney,
Down by the beautiful Lakes of Killarney,
And he said, "Nora, dear Nora, don't fret for me,
For I will soon come home to thee;
And I will build a nice cabin near the Lakes of Killarney,
And Nora will live happy with her own dear Barney."
But, alas, I awoke from my beautiful dream,
For, och, if was a most lovely scene;
But I hope it will happen some unexpected day,
When Barney comes home from Amerikay;
Then Barney will relate his adventures to me,
As we walk by the silvery Lakes of Killarney.
We will ramble among its green trees and green bushes,
And hear the sweet songs of the blackbirds and thrushes,
And gaze on its lovely banks so green,
And its waters glittering like crystal in the moonlight's sheen;
Och! how I long to be walking with Barney,
Along the green banks of the Lakes of Killarney.
Of all the spots in Ireland, Killarney for me,
For 'twas there I first met my dear Barney:
He was singing, I remember, right merrily;
And his singing filled my heart with glee,
And he said, "Nora, dear Nora, will you walk with me,
For you are the prettiest girl I ever did see."
"Now, Barney," I said, "you are just mocking me,
When you say no other girl like me you can see";
Then he said, "Nora, you are the only girl I do love,
And this I do swear by the saints above,
I will marry you, dear Nora, without delay,
When I come home from Amerikay."
But when Barney landed in Amerikay,
He courted another girl without dismay,
And he married her in the month of May,
And when I heard it I fainted away;
So maidens beware of such men as Barney,
Or else they will deceive ye with their flattering blarney.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Ode to Borrowdale
IN CUMBERLAND.
Hail , Derwent's beauteous pride!
Whose charms rough rocks in threatening grandeur guard,
Whose entrance seems to mortals barred,
But to the Genius of the storm thrown wide.
He on thy rock's dread height,
Reclined beneath his canopy of clouds,
His form in darkness shrouds,
And frowns as fixt to keep thy beauties from the sight.
But rocks and storms are vain:
Midst mountains rough and rude
Man's daring feet intrude,
Till, lo! upon the ravished eye
Burst thy clear stream, thy smiling sky,
Thy wooded valley, and thy matchless plain.
Bright vale! the Muse's choicest theme,
My morning thought, my midnight dream;
Still memory paints thee, smiling scene,
Still views the robe of purest green,
Refreshed by beauty-shedding rains,
Which wraps thy flower-enamelled plains;
Still marks thy mountains' fronts sublime,
Force graces from the hand of time;
Still I thy rugged rocks recall,
Which seem as nodding to their fall,
Whose wonders fixed my aching sight,
Till terror yielded to delight,
And my surprises, pleasures, fears,
Were told by slow delicious tears.
But suddenly the smiling day
That cheered the valley, flies away;
The wooded rocks, the rapid stream,
No longer boast the noon-tide beam.
But storms athwart the mountains sail,
And darkly brood o'er Borrowdale.
The frightened swain his cottage seeks,
Ere the thick cloud in terror speaks:--
And see, pale lightning flashes round!
While as the thunder's awful sound
On Echo's pinion widely flies,
Yon cataract's roar unheeded dies;....
And thee, Sublimity! I hail,
Throned on the gloom of Borrowdale.
But soon the thunder dies away,
The flash withdraws its fearful ray;
Again upon the silver stream
Waves in bright wreaths the noon-tide beam.
O scene sequestered, varied, wild,
Scene formed to soothe Affliction's child,
How blest were I to watch each charm
That decks thy vale in storm or calm!
To see Aurora's hand unbind
The mists by night's chill power confined;
Upon the mountain's dusky brow
Then mark their colours as they flow,
Gliding the colder West to seek,
As from the East day's splendours break.
Now the green plain enchants the sight,
Adorned with spots of yellow light;
While, by its magic influence, shade
With contrast seems each charm to aid,
And clothes the woods in deeper dyes,
To suit the azure-vested skies.
While, lo! the lofty rocks above,
Where proudly towers the bird of Jove;
See from the view yon radiant cloud
His broad and sable pinions shroud,
Till, as he onward wings his flight,
He vanishes in floods of light;
Where feathered clouds on æther sail,
And glittering hang o'er Borrowdale.....
Or, at still midnight's solemn hour,
When the dull bat revolves no more,
In search of nature's awful grace,
I'd go, with slow and cautious pace,
Where the loud torrent's foaming tide
Lashes the rock's uneven side,....
That rock which, o'er the stream below
Bending its moss-clad crumbling brow,
Makes pale with fear the wanderer's cheek,
Nor midnight's silence fails to break
By fragments from its aged head,
Which, rushing to the river's bed,
Cause, as they dash the waters round,
A dread variety of sound;
While I the gloomy grandeur hail,
And awe-struck rove through Borrowdale.
Yes, scene sequestered, varied, wild,
So form'd to soothe Affliction's child,
Sweet Borrowdale! to thee I'll fly,
To hush my bosom's ceaseless sigh.
If yet in Nature's store there be
One kind heart-healing balm for me,
Now the long hours are told by sighs,
And sorrow steals health's crimson dyes,--
If aught can smiles and bloom restore,
Ah! surely thine's the precious power!
Then take me to thy world of charms,
And hush my tortured breast's alarms;
Thy scenes with unobtrusive art
Shall steal the mourner from her heart,....
The hands in sorrow claspt unclose,
Bid her sick soul on Heaven repose,
And, soothed by time and nature, hail
Health, peace, and hope in Borrowdale.
poem by Amelia Opie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!