En.Citatepedia^®.ro

By the Side of a Brook

On the bank of a rushing brook
I sat for hours watching its course.
Peered into the clear gurgling mass
That cascaded down from a mountainous source

Like a slithering snake, it slinks and slips
It babbles downhill night and day
Rolling and gliding thro plains and dales
It winds its way to the wider bay.

Dipping my fingers in its icy chill
How my hand got repelled as from a shock
In the ripples stirred by the kissing breeze
I saw trees, clouds and the jutting rock-

All floating in queer, fanciful shapes,
Shuddering, trembling and standing still
And the fishes leaving zigzag trails,
Swishing and swimming in the winding rill.

As I quietly watched her speedy flight
With her bosom rising in mournful heaves,
In my ears fell her whisperings soft
Orchestrated by the rustle of quivering leaves

I hardly knew the time speeding by
Nor noticed the birds' homeward flight
Or the Sun moving to the west end side
And the Sky reddening at his sight

As the brook thus continued her headlong ride
To be mingled finally with the ocean wide
I walked, brooding over man's relentless stride
To be merged eventually with the Cosmic Guide.

poem by Valsa George
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Forest

(9/5/12)

I walked through the forest of beautiful tall trees
And felt the softness of a gentle breeze
I saw a rabbit running by, as I looked up to the sky
There was a squirrel jumping from tree to tree
Landing on the branches so gracefully.

I heard the crickets making their beautiful sound
But there was none that could be found.
I could hear a woodpecker pecking away
But I knew it was far away.

I heard the shrill of the crows in flight
But the trees covered them from my sight
I heard the sound of a running brook
As I searched to take a look.

The forest with all its sights
Made my heart jump with delight
All the beauties that GOD has given
Is in this forest where his creatures are living.

I found the brook which was clear as glass
And the fish jumping- creating a splash
The suns reflection on the water
like sparkling diamonds in the brook
as I got closer to take a look.

If and when time permits
Go to the forest - take a trip
Look at all that GOD has given
This is what makes life worth living.

poem by Louis Rams
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Up Up And Away

Balloons floating across the sky,
What a wonderful way to fly,
High up in the atmosphere,
Where the air is fresh and clear.

They are such a wondrous sight,
Each one glorious in it's flight,
All with designs in vivid hues,
Giving us such tremendous views.

Silently they drift away,
Towards the dawn of a new day,
Lit up by each quick burst of fire,
Sending them up, higher and higher.

What a way to spend a day,
Ballooning, up up and away,
To be above the fields and trees,
Gliding along upon the breeze.

No noisy motors to pervade the ear,
Nothing at all for you to hear,
Silence in such a wide-open space,
Moving softly with a gentle grace.

I watched them all one evening time,
As they gradually began to climb
Into the heavens, off they flew,
To meet up. maybe, at their rendezvous.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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Going For Water

The well was dry beside the door,
And so we went with pail and can
Across the fields behind the house
To seek the brook if still it ran;
Not loth to have excuse to go,
Because the autumn eve was fair
(Though chill), because the fields were ours,
And by the brook our woods were there.

We ran as if to meet the moon
That slowly dawned behind the trees,
The barren boughs without the leaves,
Without the birds, without the breeze.

But once within the wood, we paused
Like gnomes that hid us from the moon,
Ready to run to hiding new
With laughter when she found us soon.

Each laid on other a staying hand
To listen ere we dared to look,
And in the hush we joined to make
We heard, we knew we heard the brook.

A note as from a single place,
A slender tinkling fall that made
Now drops that floated on the pool
Like pearls, and now a silver blade.

poem by Robert Frost
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The Rill From The Foot Of The Mountain

The rill from the foot of the mountain that joins the river to the sea
It has babbled on downhill forever by hedgerows in the high
Country
It has witnessed the birth and death of millions of Seasons even before the first Human was born
In the upland wood where it flows through the birds sing at dawn of the morn.

The rill it is truly immortal something that will live forever more
Forever 'twill flow to the river that flows to the great ocean shore
To it there is not a time limit it is as old as father time
It has inspired the long dead poets to glorify it in their rhyme.

The rill from the foot of the mountain towards the river ripples along
And sometimes above it's quiet babble the dippers can be heard in song
The dark brown white breasted waterbirds of Human kind they do seem shy
By the water-way they were born and in the water-way they will die.

The rill from the foot of the mountain downhill to the big river flow
The ancestors of the upland farmers who lived by it centuries ago
In the old Village graveyard it flows by with the long departed they lay
As on for to join the big river it babbles on it's downhill way.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Clouds In My Mind

One by one the clouds came by.
I saw beyond them clear blue skies.
One by one my teardrops fell
and clouded the vision in my eyes.
I wipe them away,
Don't let them stay,
no need to keep them all through the day.

I think on spring and every good thing.
I listen for birds and how they sing.
One by one they land on my trees
and lighten my spirit and heartfelt pleas.
Stay in my sight.
Please don't take flight.
I need your songs to linger in my night.

Such is the loneliness that comes to call.
It comes to us for no reason at all.
For life's not simple and clouds the mind.
It's sometimes relentless and often not kind.
Offer me peace.
Let me release
my need to hold onto this loneliness beast.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Leaves on Those Trees Spoke About Me!

The leaves on those trees spoke about me,
They leaned their flat, green shapes against each other,
Then came together to talk,
As the breeze pushed them up and down.

I wondered how they even knew,
That I was of modern mankind true,
That I could be their friend or foe,
That once I decided to go.
And follow out that mission of modern man's progress.

But their green body swayed with ease,
They breathed their breathable breeze,
And continued their green soft speak,
They weren't sure their future looked,
Sunny or bleak in this modern world.

And as they observed me standing there,
Down below the trunk,
Staring at my determined stare,
I wanted to fell all trees,
To fell them just to show I could.

So the leaves presiding over their g reenland,
Commenced their dance and speech.

They couldn't decide whether I was an environmentalist,
Or a man with no green conscience with no red heart.

poem by Vera Sidhwa
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The Fog

The fog slunk down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow,
Southwardly shifting, far inshore, so never a man might know
How the sea it trod with feet soft-shod, watching the distance dim.
Where the fishing-fleet to the eastward beat, white dots on the ocean’s rim.
Feeling the sands with its furtive hands, fingering cape and cove.
Where the sweet salt smells of the nearer swells up the sloping hillside rove;
Where the whimpering sea-gulls swoop and soar, and the great king-herons go,
The fog slunk down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow!

Then a stillness fell on crag and cliff, on beach and breaker fell,
As the sea-breeze brought on its final whiff the note of a distant bell,
One faint, far sound, and the fog unwound its mantle across the lea.
Joined hand in hand with a wind from land, and the twain went out to sea.
And the wind that rose spoke soft, of those who watch on the cliffs at dawn,
And the fog’s white lips, of sinking ships where the tortured tempests spawn,
As, each to each, they told once more such things as fishers know,
When the fog slinks down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow !

Oh, the wan, white hours go limping by, when that pall comes in between
The great, blue bell of the cloudless sky and the ocean’s romping green!
Nor sane young day, nor swirl of spray, as the cat’s-paws lunge and lift;—
On sad, slow waves, like the mounds of graves, the fishermen’s dories drift.
For the fishing-craft that leapt and laughed are swallowed in ghostly gray:
Only God’s eyes may see where lies the lap of the sheltered bay,
So their dories grope, for lost their lore, witlessly to and fro,
When the fog slinks down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow !

Oh, men of the fleet, ’t is ye who learn, of the white fog’s biting breath,
That life may hang on the way ye turn, or the way ye turn be death!
Though they on the lea look out to sea for the woe or the weal of you,
The ominous East, like a hungry beast, is waiting your tidings, too.
A night and a day, mayhap, ye stray; a day and a night, perchance,
The dory is led toward Marblehead, or pointed away for France;
The shore may save, or the sea may score, in the unknown final throw,
When the fog slinks down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow!

Ah, God of the Sea, what joy there lies in that first faint hint of sun!—
When the pallid curtains sulking rise, and the reaches wider run,
When a wind from the west on the sullen breast of the waters shoulders near,
And the blessed blue of the sky looks through, as the fog-wreaths curl and clear.
Ah, God, what joy when the gallant buoy, swung high on a sudden swell,
Puts fear to flight like a dream of night with its calm, courageous bell,
And the dory trips the sea’s wide floor with the verve ’t was wont to know,
And the fog slinks back to Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow!

poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1901)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The River Forever To The Ocean Flow

The river that flows from the hills far away
Through wetlands and dry lands by night and by day
As old as father time will journey forever more
Through the flat coastal lands en route to the sea shore.

It starts on it's journey as a trickling rill
In a pond by a rock at the base of the hill
That is far north of here even as the crow fly
The river flows on and refuses to die.

From a rill to a stream and into a river it grow
As rills and streams from other hills into it flow
It babbles and gurgles by hedgerow and tree
On it's forever journey on down to the sea.

A creek, brook, stream or river call it what you may
Near the ocean it grows to a huge water-way
And Humans like the Seasons to life come and go
But the river forever to the ocean flow

poem by Francis Duggan
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In the Sylvan Setting

There's nothing like the lovely rustic charm
Exuded by the far flung lush green country farm
Where trees in majesty sweep heaven with their crown
And birds, with celestial music, the surrounding valley drown

Where the air, so pristine and sweet like the forest glade
And Heaven, with rich profusion, bless the country wide.
Where the rural folk in relentless toil, values and pride
With their simple, artless and modest life reside

My senses have ere long etched every sight n' sound
Of that country side wherein my childhood inextricably bound
To those days of bliss, I would like to retreat
And splurge in memories that cascade down in surfeit.

On a beautiful day with the sun shining bright
And the white downy clouds lazily trailing west
We walked down to the creek to catch the silvery fish
And waited for them to come to the surface with a swish

On the rocky bank, breathless as we sat
Looking for the fish, greedily nibbling at the bait
We felt the hook line suddenly going taut
With something from the other end pulling it tight

Of a sudden reflex, as we lifted the rod upright
To our wild uproar, saw a fish dangling and twirling uptight.
"Angling in a brook on a bright sunny day
Is so much fun for the kids", we heard someone say.

We went after dragon flies, by the side of the pond
And all through the fields and the pastures beyond
Meandering our way through vales, chasing butterflies
That, from flower to flower do nimbly flutter by,

We pace up and down, ever eager for the best catch
To carry home that winged thing with no other match
To shut it in a glass jar to survey it close
And watch it splay its wings in resplendent gloss.

Back from school when homework is done,
Quickly, gathering friends, we move as one
To the open ground, beyond the clump of trees
To run and play in the evening breeze

As black birds wing their way across the sky
And the ruddy orb in the west is about to die,
When shadows slowly shrink and shrivel
And the dusky eve spreads a smoky veil,

Only then, demurring, we leave our play
Cursing the elements that Time doesn't stay
Smutty and gritty, homeward, as we plough our way
We promise once more, we would meet the next day.

As hot summer fades and dark clouds gather round,
When east wind scatters dry leaves from the ground,
When elders announce the arrival of an impending shower,
Stealthily, we plan to go swimming in the nearby river.

On stormy nights as we lie, listening to the splatter of rain
Over tiled roof with the clatter of a speeding train
How swift, we drift involuntary to the castle of Slumber
To be lulled asleep by songs of magical tone and timbre!

Now, staying in the mad rush of a steaming city
With people surreptitiously chasing goals so petty
How I miss those yester years that are fled
And yearn for the sylvan paths once more to tread! !

poem by Valsa George
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sea-Piece

SUBLIME is thy prospect, thou proud-rolling Ocean,
And Fancy surveys thee with solemn delight;
When thy mountainous billows are wild in commotion,
And the tempest is rous'd by the spirits of night!

When the moon-beams thro' winter-clouds faintly appearing,
At intervals gleam on the dark-swelling wave;
And the mariner, dubious, now hoping, now fearing,
May hear the stern Genius of hurricanes rave!

But now, when thine anger has long been subsiding,
And the tempest has folded the might of its wing;
How clear is thy surface, in loveliness gliding,
For April has open'd the portals of spring!

Now soft on thy bosom the orient is beaming,
And tremulous breezes are waving thy breast;
On thy mirror the clouds and the shadows are streaming,
And morning and glory the picture have drest!

No gale but the balmy Favonian is blowing,
In coral-caves resting, the winds are asleep;
And, rich in the sun-beam, yon pendants are glowing,
That tinge with their colors the silvery deep!

Yet smile or be dreadful, thou still-changing Ocean,
Tremendous or lovely, resistless or still;
I view thee adoring, with hallow'd emotion,
The Pow'r that can hush or arouse thee at will!

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Tree And The Breeze

Have you ever noticed how the trees sway with the breeze?
It's as if they were dancing in rhythm with a mellow tune
Have you ever notice how a tree is home to a bird's nest...
where the birds rest?
It's as if the tree were a peaceful and relaxed get-away
From where their troubles stray
But then the tree also has another side
In which it can take the birds for a bit of a ride
It is its party side...
when a pile of birds get together in one tree...
to sing along to the breeze as back and forth it sways the tree

The tree's stuck in the ground
Every day its life's the same
But the breeze
Now that's a different story
The breeze is free
It goes and comes as it pleases
The tree it seizes
Have you ever noticed half the things a tree does are caused by the breeze?

poem by Amy Parkinson
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Everything Gets Reflected In Me

everything gets reflected in me-

the sky, the rolling clouds

the call of the birds and the sea,

the rustle of the leaves in whispering winds-

in the limpid lake of my mind

and their moods change its colours-

every fragrance wings into my heart

and every thought of mine soars into the space

to shine alongside brilliant stars and suns.

my laughter finds its colour in the brilliance of flowers

and my tears in the trembling pearls of the mist;

my deep fancies i dispatch to setting skies

my heaves of sighs to the billowy oceans

my anger is imaged in thunder and lightning

and my love in the songs of harmless birds!

-s.chandra kalaadhar

poem by Sundaram Chandrakalaadhar
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Sea Piece

SUBLIME is thy prospect, thou proud-rolling Ocean,
And Fancy surveys thee with solemn delight;
When thy mountainous billows are wild in commotion,
And the tempest is roused by the spirits of night !

When the moon-beams thro' winter-clouds faintly appearing,
At intervals gleam on the dark-swelling wave;
And the mariner, dubious, now hoping, now fearing,
May hear the stern Genius of hurricanes rave !

But now, when thine anger has long been subsiding,
And the tempest has folded the might of its wing;
How clear is thy surface, in loveliness gliding,
For April has opened the portals of spring !

Now soft on thy bosom the orient is beaming,
And tremulous breezes are waving thy breast;
On thy mirror the clouds and the shadows are streaming,
And morning and glory the picture have drest !

No gale but the balmy Favonian is blowing,
In coral-caves resting, the winds are asleep;
And, rich in the sun-beam, yon pendants are glowing,
That tinge with their colours the silvery deep !

Yet smile or be dreadful, thou still-changing Ocean,
Tremendous or lovely, resistless or still;
I view thee adoring, with hallow'd emotion,
The Power that can hush or arouse thee at will !

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Daly River

By those northern river banks,
There in days gone by I wandered,
By clear streaming waters pondered,
Youthful hours were never squandered,
By those sandy verdant flanks.
Saw the rain in torrents falling,
Heard the native dogs there calling,
Saw from sea the rain clouds squalling,
By the Daly river banks.

Born upon a distant range,
All the streams that feed the Daly,
Flowing slow or tumbling gaily,
Come the rains it rises daily,
In a flash the seasons change.
Down the stony gullies creeping,
From the fissured hillside seeping,
Rolling clouds their tears are weeping,
Over all the monsoon's range.

Sheeting over flats and plains,
By the creeks clear waters flowing,
To the raging river going,
As the land the heavens sowing,
Ever heavy fall the rains.
Then at last the gloom is breaking,
Sun asleep in cloud is waking,
Mud upon the flood plains baking,
So at length the wet it wanes.

In its middle reaches flows
Beautiful and clear and gleaming,
By treed sandy banks it's streaming,
With life in its waters teeming,
So it ever onward goes.
Over rocky bar it crashes,
Past the jutting sandbar dashes,
Dancing light in flowing flashes,
Cool but molten - bright it glows.

As the season turns to dry
Slowly flows the Daly river,
Piercing snags in currents quiver,
Sunken trees whose branches shiver,
Where at rest their bodies lie.
There a crocodile is sliding,
Close by muddy bank is hiding,
As the river calmly gliding,
Soft the passing waters sigh.

Soon the river widens more,
There a rolling wave is crashing,
White with foam and spray there splashing,
Sodden banks the torrent lashing,
Upstream runs the tidal bore.
Waters fresh and brackish blending,
Eddies, swirls, and whirlpools rending,
Still the winding river wending,
To the distant ocean shore.

Now the waters grey and wide,
As her heavy heart is flagging,
Wearily her burden dragging,
In her race to broad sea lagging,
Battling the surging tide.
But there spreads the great wide water,
And from there to every quarter,
There's no force on Earth will thwart her,
‘Till whatever fates decide.

poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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The Cloud On The Mountain

Elevation bestows the sky's nearness to my abode
I am the mountain's cloud, my skirt sprinkles roses

Now the wilderness, now the rose garden is my abode
City and wilderness are mine, ocean is mine, forest is mine

If I want to return to some valley for the night
The mountain's verdure is my carpet of velvet

Nature has taught me to be a pearl spreader
To chant the camel song for the camel of the Beloved of Mercy

To be the comforter of the dispirited farmer's heart
To be the elegance of the assembly of the garden's trees

I spread out over the face of the earth like the locks
I get arranged and adorned by the breeze's

I tantalize the expecting eye from a distance
As I pass silently over some habitation

As I approach strolling towards a brook's bank
I endow the brook with ear rings of whirlpools

I am the hope of the freshly grown field's verdure
I am the ocean's offspring, I am nourished by the sun

I gave ocean's tumult to the mountain spring
I charmed the birds into thrilling chants

I pronounced 'Rise' standing by the verdure's head
I conferred the taste for smile to the rose-bud

By my benevolence farmers' huts on the mountain side
Are converted into bed chambers of the opulent.

poem by Allama Muhammad Iqbal
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Brook of the Sahara

Through the Sahara a babbling brook flows,
With its announcing sound heard firsthand.
Its inquiring voice the receptive ear knows,
Whether in the days past since God created man,
Has ever such a flourishing sight arose?
This is the renewing of the face of the land,
By which the spirit of man lifts and grows.

Our God has created this by His divine trade,
A master expertise only He can possess.
No other substance existed until this God made,
A creation out of His substance and uniqueness.
This flowing brook can no longer be delayed,
Moving from the east of heaven to the west,
It feeds tree growth giving soothing shade.

Under the trees the smith blows on red hot coals.
He forms an instrument and cools it for human doer,
And heavenward the immediate puff of steam rolls.
And on from man the brook moves for the frontier,
Perfecting in its way the life God so nobly molds.
Continuing on inquiring of every receptive ear,
Has ever been seen this sight man now beholds?

May righteousness dropp down from the sky,
To renew God's divine creation He designed
From His holy throne in heaven on high.
Let this flourishing marvelous sight be refined,
As this babbling brook goes rushing by.
Continuing to inquire of every perceptive mind,
Has ever such a flourishing sight appealed an eye.

poem by Albert Price
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Birth-Day Ode 02

Small is the new-born plant scarce seen
Amid the soft encircling green,
Where yonder budding acorn rears,
Just o'er the waving grass, its tender head:
Slow pass along the train of years,
And on the growing plant, their dews and showers they shed.
Anon it rears aloft its giant form,
And spreads its broad-brown arms to meet the storm.
Beneath its boughs far shadowing o'er the plain,
From summer suns, repair the grateful village train.

Nor BEDFORD will my friend survey
The book of Nature with unheeding eye;
For never beams the rising orb of day,
For never dimly dies the refluent ray,
But as the moralizer marks the sky,
He broods with strange delight upon futurity.

And we must muse my friend! maturer years
Arise, and other Hopes and other Fears,
For we have past the pleasant plains of Youth.
Oh pleasant plains! that we might stray
For ever o'er your faery ground--
For ever roam your vales around,
Nor onward tempt the dangerous way--
For oh--what numerous foes assail
The Traveller, from that chearful vale!

With toil and heaviness opprest
Seek not the flowery bank for rest,
Tho' there the bowering woodbine spread
Its fragrant shelter o'er thy head,
Tho' Zephyr there should linger long
To hear the sky-lark's wildly-warbled song,
There heedless Youth shalt thou awake
The vengeance of the coiling snake!

Tho' fairly smiles the vernal mead
To tempt thy pilgrim feet, proceed
Hold on thy steady course aright,
Else shalt thou wandering o'er the pathless plain,
When damp and dark descends the night
Shivering and shelterless, repent in vain.

And yet--tho' Dangers lurk on every side
Receive not WORLDLY WISDOM for thy guide!
Beneath his care thou wilt not know
The throb of unavailing woe,
No tear shall tremble in thine eye
Thy breast shall struggle with no sigh,
He will security impart,
But he will apathize thy heart!

Ah no!
Fly Fly that fatal foe,
Virtue shall shrink from his torpedo grasp--
For not more fatal thro' the Wretches veins
Benumb'd in Death's cold pains
Creeps the chill poison of the deadly asp.

Serener joys my friend await
Maturer manhood's steady state.
The wild brook bursting from its source
Meanders on its early course,
Delighting there with winding way
Amid the vernal vale to stray,
Emerging thence more widely spread
It foams along its craggy bed,
And shatter'd with the mighty shock
Rushes from the giddy rock--
Hurl'd headlong o'er the dangerous steep
On runs the current to the deep,
And gathering waters as it goes
Serene and calm the river flows,
Diffuses plenty o'er the smiling coast,
Rolls on its stately waves and is in ocean lost.

poem by Robert Southey
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Landscapes

Landscapes

The landscape I walk, used to be guarded by stone hedges; infinite
supply of stones this soil yields if not much else. Nature has taken
back what man did, the landscape is lush of weed, and bent trees.
I’m sliding into silence, but if I listen I can hear Spanish bluebells
peal in a mild breeze that also carries a whisper of a Nordic lullaby,
Last year a Canadian couple walked with me, their ancestors came
from around here. We stopped outside a ruin and they went silent,
cried. An ancient memory stirred they knew this place. Where their
tears had fertilized the ground, is, this year, full of wild flowers.
No, they are not returning, Canadians now and proud of that too.
I sit on a stone, not by the river of Babylon, and see how the brook,
free from icy shackles elatedly run, will not heed words of caution.
I have made boats of bark, and sail of green leaves, see them hasten
towards the North Sea. The brook is no more, indifference has seen
to that, but the landscape of my childhood is clear as a stream.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Whispers

Sing to me, sing to me
with strength and sweetness.
As my eyes gaze upon your beauty
Swaying softly in the wind.
It's the sun, it's the water
that makes you breathtaking.
A sweet blessing from God above.
Nothing compares to the softness of a flower,
The captivating smell of a rose.
I escape to your bosom,
While tantalizing winds brushes my nose.
I could get lost in the
complete desire of love.
Laying in the field of soft grass,
Under an oak two centuries old.
And a pebble I threw causes
ripples in the trickling brook below.
Whisper to me, Whisper to me,
I haven't died and gone to heaven,
Because I'm lost in the flight of a dove.

poem by Carlene Maddux
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Triangles

Three triangles of birds crossed
Over the enormous ocean which extended
In winter like a green beast.
Everything just lay there, the silence,
The unfolding gray, the heavy light
Of space, some land now and then.
Over everything there was passing
A flight
And another flight
Of dark birds, winter bodies
Trembling triangles
Whose wings,
Frantically flapping, hardly
Can carry the gray cold, the desolate days
From one place to another
Along the coast of Chile.
I am here while from one sky to another
The trembling of the migratory birds
Leaves me sunk inside myself, inside my own matter
Like an everlasting well
Dug by an immovable spiral.
Now they have disappeared
Black feathers of the sea
Iron birds
From steep slopes and rock piles
Now at noon
I am in front of emptiness. It’s a winter
Space stretched out
And the sea has put
Over its blue face
A bitter mask.

poem by Pablo Neruda
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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