Related quotes: Will they never fade or...

The Farmer remembers the Somme

Will they never fade or pass!
The mud, and the misty figures endlessly coming
In file through the foul morass,
And the grey flood-water ripping the reeds and grass,
And the steel wings drumming.

The hills are bright in the sun:
There's nothing changed or marred in the well-known places;
When work for the day is done
There's talk, and quiet laughter, and gleams of fun
On the old folks' faces.

I have returned to these:
The farm, and the kindly Bush, and the young calves lowing;
But all that my mind sees
Is a quaking bog in a mist - stark, snapped trees,
And the dark Somme flowing.

poem by Vance Palmer
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Related quotes

Misty River

This morning
Me in this Misty River
All the happiness
I am feeling inside myself
Misty River
The mist is coming
From this Misty River
There are clouds
In the sky
And the mist
Is caused by the condensation
Of the heat mixed in the cold water
Misty River
I am in a fishing boat
That boat is moving slowly in this
Misty river
It is early in the morning
I am eating my breakfast in the fishing boat in the middle of this
Misty River
I hear the birds singing early in the morning
In this Misty River
There must be trees because the sound of the birds is coming from the Branches
Misty River
So peaceful
It looks so different with the mist
No one is around but me
With my fishing boat
And the beautiful sound of the birds
It is so nice
To have a place to come to
Where I can
Hear the sound of the birds
And be left alone
With no one disturbing me
Misty River
This is my special place
And by afternoon
No clouds I will see
The birds are beautiful
Their song is just beautiful like mother nature intended it to be
If nobody else appreciates this Misty River
I do
Misty River
I will die for you
Misty River
I will shed my tears for you
I have been coming here for so long now
Misty River

poem by Aldo Kraas
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Exmoor Verses

I. VASHTI'S SONG

Over the rim of the Moor,
And under the starry sky,
Two men came to my door
And rested them thereby.

Beneath the bough and the star,
In a whispering foreign tongue,
They talked of a land afar
And the merry days so young!

Beneath the dawn and the bough
I heard them arise and go:
And my heart it is aching now
For the more it will never know.

Why did they two depart
Before I could understand?
Where lies that land, O my heart?
-O my heart, where lies that land?

II. SATURN

From my farm, from hèr farm
Furtively we came.
In either home a hearth was warm:
We nursed a hungrier flame.

Our feet were foul with mire,
Our faces blind with mist;
But all the night was naked fire
About us where we kiss'd.

To her farm, to my farm,
Loathing we returned;
Pale beneath a gallow's arm
The planet Saturn burned.

III. DERELICTION

O'er the tears that we shed, dear
The bitter vines twist,
And the hawk and the red deer
They keep where we kiss'd:
All broken lies the shieling
That sheltered from rain,
With a star to pierce the ceiling,
And the dawn an empty pane.

Thro' the mist, up the moorway,
Fade hunters and pack;
From the ridge to thy doorway
Happy voices float back…
O, between the threads o' mist, love,
Reach your hands from the house.
Only mind that we kiss'd, love,
And forget the broken vows!

poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
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Homeward Going

GRAY smoke in the green leaves,
Someone homeward going,
No sound in the lone hills . . .
Only cattle lowing.
Still trees and a hushed world,
Leaf and limb unshaken,
No wind in the tall grass,
Creeksides bird-forsaken.
Pale, pale and with mute lips
One in shadow lying —
Near gone from the green world,
Sorrow nigh him sighing.
Day's strife and a life's strife
Each in quiet ending;
Life's light and the dark of death
Softly interblending.
One star on a far ridge,
Home the Homeward going,
No sound on the lone hills . . .
Only cattle lowing.

poem by Roderic Quinn
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Stark (5,3,1 structure for Gulsher: -)

All matter that existence here
constructed of quark?
Stark

Everything you need for life
Fits one arc?
Stark

A misty graveyard with only
Song of Lark
Stark

Raving madness that takes hold
Makes you bark
Stark

Cutting bluntness of succinct remark
Stalks like shark
Stark

Barron, the searing hot desert
Must not disembark
Stark

Broken mind, shades
under depression
So very dark
Stark

Winters morn sitting on bench
In empty park
Stark

poem by Stevie Taite
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Stark

All matter and existence
build from the concept of quark
Stark

Everything you need for life
Fits on one Arc
Stark

A misty graveyard with just
the song of the Lark
Stark

The raving madness that takes hold
and makes you bark
Stark

The cutting bluntness
of a succinct remark
Stark

Barren, the searing desert.
I fight the urge to disembark
Stark

A broken mind, in the shade
of depression, so dark
Stark

A winters morn alone
on a bench in an empty park
Stark

poem by Stevie Taite
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Goodbye now to the bush

Goodbye now to the bush
and patrols that go on
almost endlessly,

ration packs that never really differ,
the sun rising over unknown places,
death and hardship on unknown faces,

bullets flying past
and rocket propelled grenades exploding,
the stark mad bark of the LMG,

but I wonder how long
this piece will last.

[Reference: LMG => Light machinegun.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Our Cow

Down by the slipralls stands our cow
Chewing, chewing, chewing,
She does not care what folks out there
In the great, big world are doing.
She sees the small cloud-shadows pass
And green grass shining under.
If she does think, what does she think
About it all, I wonder?

She sees the swallows skimming by
Above the sweet young clover,
The light reeds swaying in the wind
And tall trees bending over.
Far down the track she hears the crack
of bullock-whips, and raving
Of angry men where, in the sun,
Her fellow-beasts are slaving.

Girls, we are told, can scratch and scold,
And boys will fight and wrangle,
And big, grown men, just now and then,
Fret o'er some fingle-fangle,
Vexing the earth with grief or mirth,
Longing, rejoicing, rueing -
But by the slipralls stands our cow,
Chewing.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Plunge

I would bathe myself in strangeness:
These comforts heaped upon me, smother me!
I burn, I scald so for the new,
New friends, new faces,
Places!
Oh to be out of this,
This that is all I wanted
- save the new.

And you,
Love, you the much, the more desired!
Do I not loathe all walls, streets, stones,
All mire, mist, all fog,
All ways of traffic?
You, I wold have flow over me like water,
Oh, but far out of this!
Grass, and low fields, and hills,
And sun,
Oh, sun enough!
Out, and alone, among some
Alien people!

poem by Ezra Pound
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The Great Grey Water

Now two have met, now two have met,
Who may not meet again—
Two grains of sand, two blades of grass,
Two threads within the skein—
Beside the Great Grey Water.

Two hands to touch, two hearts to touch;
And, here forgathered, we
Will not forget, may not forget,
Where last forgathered three—
Beyond the Great Grey Water.

Two glasses filled, two pipes to fill—
‘To all our fortunes, brother!’
And as they clink—like so—we drink
Fair passage to the other
Across the Great Grey Water.

For three have sailed, and one has sailed,
His sins, like ours, still on him,
God sleep his soul! five oceans roll
Their long weight all upon him.
O God! thy Great Grey Water!

But I am still, and you are still,
And here our chance has flung us;
True comrades we, but…there were three
And one is not among us
Beside the Great Grey Water.

A breathing space, a biding place,
Soft lights and beakers beaded,
Then out again and on again,
Unminded and unheeded,
Across the Great Grey Water.

Now two have met where three have met
With curses or with laughter;
And so our Day shall pass away,
And so our Night come after—
But, ah! the Great Grey Water

poem by Edwin James Brady
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Transition

The air was sultry
as the sun stood,
a blazing ball of fire, overhead.
Streams of sweat trickled through
every pore of the skin.
Sheets of light, like waves of water
glistened across the road.

The sky, suddenly into a violent rage, flew.
Dark mass of clouds, driven by the wind
went scurrying from West to East.
A dark shroud, across the sky
from end to end was spread.
The Sun stood veiled behind the penumbra of gloom.
The trees arched convex by the hard pull of the air.
And the heavens started weeping, wailing and roaring
darting gleams of light with fluorescent rays.
Thunder boomed and bounced as boulders,
falling over tin roofs.
Twigs and boughs went flying
like arrows from the archer's bow.
Light went out, as cables and electric lines
snapped down. Like festoons hung on poles
they lay dangling in the air.
Birds with their damp feathers
sat silent, forgetting their chirp and twitter.
Cattle stayed quiet, refusing to chew the cud.
The Earth dappled by a horrid grey mist
lay hideous……..
Every ditch and canal spilled over.
Trees crashed down and vegetation fell head long.
Wreaking havoc, the rain poured down.

Then everything was quiet and still.
Like a child gone to sleep,
after throwing violent tantrums unrelenting,
The sky over head, in her cerulean night gown
fell asleep,
attended by her twinkling handmaids!

poem by Valsa George
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Misty Water

By the town of straight and narrow,
Theres a dark and misty place.
Everything is hazy,
So the people are afraid.
All except marias daughters,
Who believe in misty ways.
Everything is lovely,
In a misty morning glaze.
I like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters,
They like misty water.
I like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters,
Take a sip of misty water.
Though maria is not lovely,
Shes the lady of my dreams.
cause I see my lady,
Through a misty, silky screen.
And seeing is believing,
But I cant believe my eyes.
Everything is lovely,
In a misty paradise.
I like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters,
They like misty water.
They like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters,
Take a sip of misty water.
I like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters,
They like misty water.
They like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters,
They like misty water.
I like misty water,
I like fog and haze.
Anne maria and her daughters...

song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shancoduff

My black hills have never seen the sun rising,
Eternally they look north towards Armagh.
Lot's wife would not be salt if she had been
Incurious as my black hills that are happy
When dawn whitens Glassdrummond chapel.

My hills hoard the bright shillings of March
While the sun searches in every pocket.
They are my Alps and I have climbed the Matterhorn
With a sheaf of hay for three perishing calves
In the field under the Big Forth of Rocksavage.

The sleety winds fondle the rushy beards of Shancoduff
While the cattle-drovers sheltering in the Featherna Bush
Look up and say: "Who owns them hungry hills
That the water-hen and snipe must have forsaken?
A poet? Then by heavens he must be poor."
I hear and is my heart not badly shaken?

poem by Patrick Kavanagh
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Like A Fountain Of Water

Like a fountain of water

Kissing you throughout

Inevitable conclusion.

Grey figures moving in the mist
that rolls across the battlefield
Although long dead they still persist
and stubbornly refuse to yield

The can’t go back and won’t move on
perhaps convinced they’re still alive.
So they still wander woebegone
they’ve given all they had to give.

They still have hope although in vain.
That they will wake up from their dream
and be set free to live again.
To see once more the bright sun beam.

I wander with my pen in hand
I try to record how I feel
I do my best to understand.
I hear somehow their mute appeal.

On holiday in Flanders fields
I write my journal every day.
Each battlefield I visit yields
more ghostly figures in the grey

of swirling slowly fading mist.
Evaporating in the sun
I can do nothing to assist.
But if I could I would have done.

Almost a century has passed
since that great war to end all wars.
Still in the mists sad ghosts are massed.
But mankind has not changed his course.

He has evolved the means to kill
in greater numbers than before.
It seems that mankind lacks the will
to live in peace. He prefers war.

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Country Wife

She makes her way through the dark trees
Down to the lake to be alone.
Following their voices on the breeze,
She makes her way. Through the dark trees
The distant stars are all she sees.
They cannot light the way she's gone.
She make her way through the dark trees
Down to the lake to be alone.

The night reflected on the lake,
The fire of stars changed into water.
She cannot see the winds that break
The night reflected on the lake
But knows they motion for her sake.
These are the choices they have brought her:
The night reflected on the lake,
The fire of stars changed into water.

poem by Dana Gioia
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Song of songs

It’s early morning
and the sun hangs like a large orange
Just above the hillocks

Three teenage girls
undress at the clear water
of a Brooklet.

The are shy for others,
but like to bathe together and walk
with bare feet into the rocky little stream.

Everyone of them is still young and pure
and splash and frolic while the sun
shines hotter and brighter.

The water is still cold
and their nipples are hard and black
on their round breasts.

While they wash each other
it sparkles shiny and rows of drops
are on their brown skins

The water runs of in little streams
down arms, stomachs, hips and thighs
and they stand and talk and laugh.

Something quivers in the reeds where is grows in a thicket
deep into the stream and they see
a dark green water monitor going into the water.

They run screaming and stark naked
and try without any clothes, to get direction
to the shacks of the village where they stay.

poem by Gert Strydom
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On The Night Train

Have you seen the bush by moonlight, from the train, go running by?
Blackened log and stump and sapling, ghostly trees all dead and dry;
Here a patch of glassy water; there a glimpse of mystic sky?
Have you heard the still voice calling – yet so warm, and yet so cold:
"I'm the Mother-Bush that bore you! Come to me when you are old"?

Did you see the Bush below you sweeping darkly to the Range,
All unchanged and all unchanging, yet so very old and strange!
While you thought in softened anger of the things that did estrange?
(Did you hear the Bush a-calling, when your heart was young and bold:
"I'm the Mother-bush that nursed you; Come to me when you are old"?)

In the cutting or the tunnel, out of sight of stock or shed,
Did you hear the grey Bush calling from the pine-ridge overhead:
"You have seen the seas and cities – all is cold to you, or dead –
All seems done and all seems told, but the grey-light turns to gold!
I'm the Mother-Bush that loves you – come to me now you are old"?

poem by Henry Lawson
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The House Of Dust: Part 02: 05: Retrospect

Round white clouds roll slowly above the housetops,
Over the clear red roofs they flow and pass.
A flock of pigeons rises with blue wings flashing,
Rises with whistle of wings, hovers an instant,
And settles slowly again on the tarnished grass.

And one old man looks down from a dusty window
And sees the pigeons circling about the fountain
And desires once more to walk among those trees.
Lovers walk in the noontime by that fountain.
Pigeons dip their beaks to drink from the water.
And soon the pond must freeze.

The light wind blows to his ears a sound of laughter,
Young men shuffle their feet, loaf in the sunlight;
A girl's laugh rings like a silver bell.
But clearer than all these sounds is a sound he hears
More in his secret heart than in his ears,—
A hammer's steady crescendo, like a knell.
He hears the snarl of pineboards under the plane,
The rhythmic saw, and then the hammer again,—
Playing with delicate strokes that sombre scale . . .
And the fountain dwindles, the sunlight seems to pale.

Time is a dream, he thinks, a destroying dream;
It lays great cities in dust, it fills the seas;
It covers the face of beauty, and tumbles walls.
Where was the woman he loved? Where was his youth?
Where was the dream that burned his brain like fire?
Even a dream grows grey at last and falls.

He opened his book once more, beside the window,
And read the printed words upon that page.
The sunlight touched his hand; his eyes moved slowly,
The quiet words enchanted time and age.

'Death is never an ending, death is a change;
Death is beautiful, for death is strange;
Death is one dream out of another flowing;
Death is a chorded music, softly going
By sweet transition from key to richer key.
Death is a meeting place of sea and sea.'

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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The Two Spirits: An Allegory

FIRST SPIRIT
O thou, who plum'd with strong desire
Wouldst float above the earth, beware!
A Shadow tracks thy flight of fire--
Night is coming!
Bright are the regions of the air,
And among the winds and beams
It were delight to wander there--
Night is coming!SECOND SPIRIT
The deathless stars are bright above;
If I would cross the shade of night,
Within my heart is the lamp of love,
And that is day!
And the moon will smile with gentle light
On my golden plumes where'er they move;
The meteors will linger round my flight,
And make night day.FIRST SPIRIT

But if the whirlwinds of darkness waken
Hail, and lightning, and stormy rain;
See, the bounds of the air are shaken--
Night is coming!
The red swift clouds of the hurricane
Yon declining sun have overtaken,
The clash of the hail sweeps over the plain--
Night is coming!SECOND SPIRIT

I see the light, and I hear the sound;
I'll sail on the flood of the tempest dark,
With the calm within and the light around
Which makes night day:
And thou, when the gloom is deep and stark,
Look from thy dull earth, slumber-bound,
My moon-like flight thou then mayst mark
On high, far away.----

Some say there is a precipice
Where one vast pine is frozen to ruin
O'er piles of snow and chasms of ice
Mid Alpine mountains;
And that the languid storm pursuing
That winged shape, for ever flies
Round those hoar branches, aye renewing
Its aëry fountains.

Some say when nights are dry and dear,
And the death-dews sleep on the morass,
Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller,
Which make night day:
And a silver shape like his early love doth pass
Upborne by her wild and glittering hair,
And when he awakes on the fragrant grass,
He finds night day.

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Weather Report Suite Part 1

Winter rain, now tell me why, Summers fade, and roses die.
The answer came; the wind and rain.
Golden hills, now veiled in grey, Summer leaves have blown away
Now what remains? The wind and rain.
And like a desert spring, my lover comes and spreads her wings, Knowing,
Like a song that's born to soar the sky, Flowing,
Flowing 'til the waters all are dry, Growing, the loving in her eyes.
Circle songs and sands of time, and seasons will end in tumbled rhyme,
and little change, the wind and rain.
And like a desert spring, my lover comes and spreads her wings,
Knowing, Like a song that's born to soar the sky,
Flowing, Flowing 'til the rivers all are dry, Growing, the loving in her eyes.
Winter grey and falling rain, we'll see summer come again,
Darkness falls and seasons change (gonna happen every time).
Same old friends the wind and rain, Summers fade and roses die,
You'll see summer come again, Like a song that's born to soar the sky.

song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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