The Count Of Griers
FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.
At morn the Count of Greiers before his castle stands;
He sees afar the glory that lights the mountain lands;
The horned crags are shining, and in the shade between
A pleasant Alpine valley lies beautifully green.
'Oh, greenest of the valleys, how shall I come to thee!
Thy herdsmen and thy maidens, how happy must they be!
I have gazed upon thee coldly, all lovely as thou art,
But the wish to walk thy pastures now stirs my inmost heart.'
He hears a sound of timbrels, and suddenly appear
A troop of ruddy damsels and herdsmen drawing near;
They reach the castle greensward, and gayly dance across;
The white sleeves flit and glimmer, the wreaths and ribands toss.
The youngest of the maidens, slim as a spray of spring,
She takes the young count's fingers, and draws him to the ring,
They fling upon his forehead a crown of mountain flowers,
'And ho, young Count of Greiers! this morning thou art ours!'
Then hand in hand departing, with dance and roundelay,
Through hamlet after hamlet, they lead the Count away.
They dance through wood and meadow, they dance across the linn,
Till the mighty Alpine summits have shut the music in.
The second morn is risen, and now the third is come;
Where stays the Count of Greiers? has he forgot his home?
Again the evening closes, in thick and sultry air;
There's thunder on the mountains, the storm is gathering there.
The cloud has shed its waters, the brook comes swollen down;
You see it by the lightning--a river wide and brown.
Around a struggling swimmer the eddies dash and roar,
Till, seizing on a willow, he leaps upon the shore.
'Here am I cast by tempests far from your mountain dell.
Amid our evening dances the bursting deluge fell.
Ye all, in cots and caverns, have 'scaped the water-spout,
While me alone the tempest o'erwhelmed and hurried out.
'Farewell, with thy glad dwellers, green vale among the rocks!
Farewell the swift sweet moments, in which I watched thy flocks!
Why rocked they not my cradle in that delicious spot,
That garden of the happy, where Heaven endures me not?
'Rose of the Alpine valley! I feel, in every vein,
Thy soft touch on my fingers; oh, press them not again!
Bewitch me not, ye garlands, to tread that upward track,
And thou, my cheerless mansion, receive thy master back.'
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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Reciprocal Invitation To The Dance
THE INDIFFERENT.
COME to the dance with me, come with me, fair one!
Dances a feast-day like this may well crown.
If thou my sweetheart art not, thou canst be so,
But if thou wilt not, we still will dance on.
Come to the dance with me, come with me, fair one!
Dances a feast-day like this may well crown.
THE TENDER.
Loved one, without thee, what then would all feast be?
Sweet one, without thee, what then were the dance?
If thou my sweetheart wert not, I would dance not.
If thou art still so, all life is one feast.
Loved one, without thee, what then would all feasts be?
Sweet one, without thee, what then were the dance?
THE INDIFFERENT.
Let them but love, then, and leave us the dancing!
Languishing love cannot bear the glad dance.
Let us whirl round in the waltz's gay measure,
And let them steal to the dim-lighted wood.
Let them but love, then, and leave us the dancing!
Languishing love cannot bear the glad dance.
THE TENDER.
Let them whirl round, then, and leave us to wander!
Wand'ring to love is a heavenly dance.
Cupid, the near one, o'erhears their deriding,
Vengeance takes suddenly, vengeance takes soon.
Let them whirl round, then, and leave us to wander!
Wand'ring to love is a heavenly dance.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Ain't No Mountain High Enough
Listen, baby
Ain't no mountain high
Ain't no vally low
Ain't no river wide enough, baby
If you need me, call me
No matter where you are
No matter how far
Just call my name
I'll be there in a hurry
You don't have to worry
'Cause baby,
There ain't no mountain high enough
Ain't no valley low enough
Ain't no river wide enough
To keep me from getting to you
Remember the day
I set you free
I told you
You could always count on me
From that day on I made a vow
I'll be there when you want me
Some way,some how
'Cause baby,
There ain't no mountain high enough
Ain't no valley low enough
Ain't no river wide enough
To keep me from getting to you
No wind, no rain
My love is alive
Way down in my heart
Although we are miles apart
If you ever need a helping hand
I'll be there on the double
As fast as I can
Don't you know that
There ain't no mountain high enough
Ain't no valley low enough
Ain't no river wide enough
To keep me from getting to you
Don't you know that
There ain't no mountain high enough
Ain't no valley low enough
Ain't no river wide enough
song performed by by Michael Mcdonald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Count Me Out
Count me out
Count me out
Fellas want to hang
And save tonight just
For the gang
But youll have to count me
Out this time
If I cant bring my girl
Dont look surprised
When I tell you that
Gotta spend some time
With my baby, yes
So if that means
Were gonna rain on
Your parade
Youll have to count me out
Youre gonna have to count me
Out
Youll have to count me out
I wanna be with my girlfriend
Youll have to count me out
This time
Youll have to count me out
When she asked me please
Could I say no and feel at
Ease
If you count me out tonight
Shes gonna be with me wherever
I go
Shes got a sweet personality
She saves her kisses just for me
So if that means were gonna rain on
Your parade
Youll have to count me out
Youre gonna have to count
Me out
Youll have to count me out
Im saving kisses for my baby
Youll have to count me out
This time
Youll have to count me out
Youll have to count me out
Youre gonna have to count
Me out
Youll have to count me out
My baby wants to be with me
Youll have to count me out
Thats the way its gonna be
Youll have to count me out
Count me out
Count me out
Youll have to count me out
Youre gonna have to count me
Out
Youll have to count me out
I wanna be with my girlfriend
Youll have to count me out
This time
Youll have to count me out
This time
Youll have to count me out
Youll have to count me out
Youre gonna have to count
Me out
Youll have to count me out
Im saving all my loving for her
Youll have to count me out
This time
Youll have to count me out
I love my baby but shes just a
Tease
And when I need her I say please,
Please, please
Can I hold you,
Squeeze you,
Cause I need you
Count me out
Youll have to count me out
This time
Dont count me out
Dont leave me out
Youll have to count me out
This time
Youll have to count me out
Count me out
Youll have to count me out
Youll have to count me out
Count me out
Youll have to count me out
Man, were going to the movies
Then to the park, to play a little
Ball till it get dark
Thats what being young is all about
Man, c-o-u-n-t me out
Well what about us,
Were your friends
We wanna c-o-u-n-t
Me in,
No not tonight
Where you going then
Tonight I wanna be with my girlfriend
Youll have to count me out
Youll have to count me out
Youll have to count me out
Youll have to count me out
This time
Youll have to count me out
Count me out
Count me out
Count me out
Dont count me out
Dont leave me out
Youll have to count me out
Youre gonna have to count
Me out
Youll have to count me out
Im saving kisses for my baby
Youll have to count me out
This time
Youll have to count me out
Youll have to count me out
Youre gonna have to count
Me out
Youll have to count me out
I wanna be with my girlfriend
Youll have to count me out
This time
Youll have to count me out
song performed by by New Edition
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Arab's Farewell To His Horse
MY beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by
With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye;
Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed-
I may not mount on thee again-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!
Fret not with that impatient hoof-snuff not the breezy wind-
The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;
The stranger hath thy bridle rein-thy master hath his gold-
Fleet-limbed and beautiful! farewell! -thou'rt sold, my steed-thou'rt sold!
Farewell! those free untired limbs, full many a mile must roam,
To reach the chill and wintry sky, which clouds the stranger's home;
Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare;
The silky mane I braided once, must be another's care!
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee
Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be:
Evening shall darken on the earth; and o'er the sandy plain
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.
Yes, thou must go! the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,
Thy master's home-from all of these, my exiled one must fly.
Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light:
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I starting wake, to feel-thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!
Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side:
And the rich blood, that is in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,
Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.
Will they ill-use thee? If I thought-but no, it cannot be-
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free.
And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn-
Can the hand which casts thee from it now, command thee to return?
Return! -alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,
When thou who wert his all of joy, hast vanished from his view?
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gath'ring tears
Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirâge appears.
Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary foot alone,
Where with fleet step, and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on;
And, sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think,
'It was here he bowed his glossy neck, when last I saw him drink! '
When last I saw thee drink! -away! the fevered dream is o'er-
I could not live a day, and know, that we should meet no more!
They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong-
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.
Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold?
'Tis false-'tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold!
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains;
Away! who overtakes us now, shall claim thee for his pains!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Thought Of A Briton On The Subjugation Of Switzerland
TWO Voices are there; one is of the sea,
One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice:
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee
Thou fought'st against him; but hast vainly striven:
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft:
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left;
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be
That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!
poem by William Wordsworth
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Call On Me
The feelin is clear
Clear as a blue sky on a sunny day
Everything was you
cause no one made me feel
The way I felt with you
Call on me cause
I love you
You know I do
You love me too
Then came a change
When I said I would soon be leavin you
Nothin else to do
Please remember Ill never lose the thought of you
Call on me cause
I love you
You know I do
You love me too
Youve got to find
Someone else to somehow take my place
Share his love with you
But if you need a friend
You can always count on me
Count on me cause
I love you
You know I do
You love me too
You can count on me oh
You can count on me
You can count on me baby
You can count on me
You can count on me oh
You can count on me
You can count on me baby
You can count on me
You can count on me oh
You can count on me
You can count on me baby
You can count on me
You can count on me oh
You can count on me
song performed by by Chicago
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Come down, O Maid
COME down, O maid, from yonder mountain height:
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang),
In height and cold, the splendour of the hills?
But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease
To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine,
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire;
And come, for Love is of the valley, come,
For Love is of the valley, come thou down
And find him; by the happy threshold, he,
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize,
Or red with spirted purple of the vats,
Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk
With Death and Morning on the silver horns,
Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine,
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice,
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors:
But follow; let the torrent dance thee down
To find him in the valley; let the wild
Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill
Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke,
That like a broken purpose waste in air:
So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales
Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth
Arise to thee; the children call, and I
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound,
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn,
The moan of doves in immemorial elms,
And murmuring of innumerable bees.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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The Princess: A Medley: Come down, O Maid
Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height:
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang)
In height and cold, the splendour of the hills?
But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease
To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine,
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire;
And come, for Love is of the valley, come,
For Love is of the valley, come thou down
And find him; by the happy threshold, he,
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize,
Or red with spirted purple of the vats,
Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk
With Death and Morning on the silver horns,
Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine,
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice,
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors:
But follow; let the torrent dance thee down
To find him in the valley; let the wild
Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill
Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke,
That like a broken purpose waste in air:
So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales
Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth
Arise to thee; the children call, and I
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound,
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn,
The moan of doves in immemorial elms,
And murmuring of innumerable bees.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To The River Rhone
Thou Royal River, born of sun and shower
In chambers purple with the Alpine glow,
Wrapped in the spotless ermine of the snow
And rocked by tempests!--at the appointed hour
Forth, like a steel-clad horseman from a tower,
With clang and clink of harness dost thou go
To meet thy vassal torrents, that below
Rush to receive thee and obey thy power.
And now thou movest in triumphal march,
A king among the rivers! On thy way
A hundred towns await and welcome thee;
Bridges uplift for thee the stately arch,
Vineyards encircle thee with garlands gay,
And fleets attend thy progress to the sea!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Ode On A Grecian Urn
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
poem by John Keats
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Let Me Count The Ways
Let me count the ways how I love you
Its like that gentle wind you feel at dawn
Its like that first sun that hits the dew
Its like that cloud with a gold lining telling us softly
That itll be a good day, a good day for us
Thank you, thank you, thank you
Let me count the ways how I miss you
Its like that oak tree in my childhood garden
Its like that first summer I spent in egypt
Its like that warm evening you read to me
Both knowing deeply
That its a good time, a good time for us
Thank you, thank you, thank you
Let me count the ways how I see you
Its like that lake in the mountain you heard about
Its like that autumn sky that stays so blue
Its like that air around me that holds me gently
Whispering strongly that youre always there, always for me
Thank you, thank you, thank you
song performed by by Lennon John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Let Me Count The Ways
Let me count the ways how I love you,
Its like that gentle wind you feel at dawn,
Its like that first sun that hits the dew,
Its like that cloud with a gold lining telling us softly
That itll be a good day, a good day for us.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Let me count the ways how I miss you,
Its like that oak tree in my childhood garden,
Its like that first summer I spent in egypt,
Its like that warm evening you read to me
Both knowing deeply that its a good time,
A good time for us.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Let me count the ways how I see you,
Its like that lake in the mountain you heard about,
Its like that autumn sky that stays so blue,
Its like that air around me that holds me so gently,
Whispering strongly
That youre always there, always for me.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Boy And The Brook. (Armenian Popular Song, From The Prose Version Of Alishan)
Down from yon distant mountain height
The brooklet flows through the village street;
A boy comes forth to wash his hands,
Washing, yes washing, there he stands,
In the water cool and sweet.
Brook, from what mountain dost thou come,
O my brooklet cool and sweet!
I come from yon mountain high and cold,
Where lieth the new snow on the old,
And melts in the summer heat.
Brook, to what river dost thou go?
O my brooklet cool and sweet!
I go to the river there below
Where in bunches the violets grow,
And sun and shadow meet.
Brook, to what garden dost thou go?
O my brooklet cool and sweet!
I go to the garden in the vale
Where all night long the nightingale
Her love-song doth repeat.
Brook, to what fountain dost thou go?
O my brooklet cool and sweet!
I go to the fountain at whose brink
The maid that loves thee comes to drink,
And whenever she looks therein,
I rise to meet her, and kiss her chin,
And my joy is then complete.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Autumn-Spirit.
Now the Autumn-Spirit reigneth over mountain, vale and plain,
And the Earth, bedecked with symbols of the Autumn-Spirit's reign,
Makes us think about the season of the flowers with a sigh,
When life was lush in every tree-love laughed in every eye,
Whilst her lineaments of beauty were imprinted on the sod,
When the Spring with Winter wrestled, on that gala-day of God!
But the Spring is dead and buried, and the Summer's vital fire,
Like a heap of sullen embers, smoulders ready to expire;
For the Autumn-Spirit, reigning over mountain, vale and plain,
Robes the Earth in royal symbols emblematic of his reign!
Hark! a singing train of seraphim doth o'er its surface pass!
Mark! their flowing robes of flame have singed the green and speary grass!
Witness! every tender blade appeareth tipped and tinged with brown,
And the hedge is hemmed with rose-leaves, which their wings have shaken down,
Though the hind but hears the whirring of ten thousand pinions beat,
Sees a cloud of birds of passage trail its shadow by his feet,
For the pageantry of Heaven hath escaped his optics dim,
And he sees but birds of passage in the God-sent seraphim,
While the Autumn-Spirit reigneth over mountain, vale and plain,
And the Earth is robed in symbols of the Autumn-Spirit's reign!
While his tread is on the mountain, through the valley and the plain,
Like some Fate-commissioned angel, Desolation tracks his train,
And the glory of the Summer and the beauty of the Spring
Form a carpet for his feet, a fading, weird, and worn-out thing!
And his wings distil an odour, as of corpses in perfume,
Warbled through his ghastly whispers sound the sighs of buried bloom,
And his accents are dim echoes from the hollow caves of Death,
And the wailing woods are withered by his cold and crisping breath,
For the Autumn-Spirit reigneth over mountain, vale and plain,
And the Earth is robed in symbols of the Autumn-spirit's reign!
Where the Poet loves to saunter in some unfrequented nook,
Or to sit and learn the language of the ever-babbling brook,
While its glassy surface mirrors the deep gulf of Heaven's blue,
Where the sunny cloud-ships, sailing, point to vapour lands in view,
There the river's creeks are mantled with red leaves and yellow foam,
And its broken banks are scattered with dead branches dipped in loam,
And a wail of desolation through the fading forest hums,
And the Winds grow chill by thinking of the Winter ere it comes,
While the Autumn-Spirit reigneth over mountain, vale and plain,
And the Earth is robed in symbols of the Autumn-Spirit's reign!
Where the lily of the valley and the violet of the copse
Looked like Thoughts incorporated-like embodied youthful Hopes!
Where the golden-tubëd honeysuckle's pipes were interwound
With the ruddy-tinted roses breathing scented music round,
In the field or the forest, by the verdure-sheltered rills,
Where, in green and golden garments, Summer sate among the hills,
There the green is growing yellow, and the yellow turning sere,
And the Summer Sun, made mellow with the Autumn-Spirit's cheer,
Goeth reeling to his slumber every evening more soon,
While with nightly brighter lustre glows the silver-mantled Moon;
For the Autumn-Spirit reigneth over mountain, vale and plain,
And the Earth is robed in symbols of the Autumn-Spirit's reign!
When the sanguine-featured Planet shows her forehead in the west,
While a sea of glowing silver rocks the god of day to rest,
And, above, a cloudy. canopy of purple tinged with gold
In its ruddy-flaming fringes doth the dying Day enfold,
And the drapery of Heaven is enwreathed around the brow
Of bright Eve, whose maiden blushes bathe the Earth in crimson glow,
And that orbëd angel, Vesper, in a flood of rosy light,
Laves her glowing limbs a, moment ere she ushers in the Night;
Then the Autumn-Spirit reigneth over mountain, vale and plain,
And the Evening wears the symbols of the Autumn-Spirit's reign!
When the mellow-voicëd blackbird grows more plaintive in his tone,
And weird Fancy in its echo hears the Summer's dying groan,
While his tale of blissful sorrow doth the soul as much appal
As if some lost angel sang a song of Heaven e'er his fall;
Then the Autumn-Spirit reigneth over mountain, vale and plain,
And the twilight wears the symbols of the Autumn-Spirit's reign!
When the glow-worm in the coppice on the mossy bank doth lie,
Like a jewel that had fallen from Jove's palace in the sky,
Or a pebble, by some angel cast o'er Heaven's battlement,
That had kindled in its coming by the speed of its descent,
And with soft and saintly lustre gleams and glitters on the sod,
Like a pearl from Air's blue ocean in the garments of a God!
Then the Autumn-Spirit reigneth over mountain, vale and plain,
And the Night is robed in symbols of the Autumn-Spirit's reign!
When the roar of distant rivers, through the midnight's ghostly gloom,
Utters prophecies of stillness, sadness, silence, and the tomb;
When strange minstrelsy is mingled with the boding forest-breath,
Like the music of an organ fingered by the hand of Death,
While, through sheen and shade, through dusky dells, and moon-illumined bowers,
Elves and fairies walk in mourning at the funeral of the Flowers,
And a death-dance of pale Shadows is performed around the tomb,
Where the yew-trees' sable crosses and the dark-green hollies gloom,
Then the Autumn-Spirit reigneth over mountain, vale and plain,
And the midnight wears the symbols of the Autumn-Spirit's reign!
When the cloud-fiends dip their fingers in the purple blood of Dawn,
And ring Day's rising planet with a sanguine-cinctured zone,
Like a flame-enveloped vessel sailing in a sea of gore,
Then the sun through sanguine cloud-waves dim-red radiance down doth pour,
Which alarms the sleeping valleys, while their streams of purple mist,
Rising, wrap the blue hill-summits in a robe of amethyst,
And the hoar-frost and the sunlight, met upon the city spire,
Make it seem a glowing pyramid of mingled snow and fire,
And the trees all tinged with silver, and the buildings touched with white,
Show that Winter kissed the Earth beneath the canopy of Night;
Then the Autumn-Spirit reigneth over mountain, vale and plain,
And the Morn is robed in symbols of the Autumn-Spirit's reign!
When the nuts upon the hazels seem to burn within their husks,
Like that ring of sullen fire which Phoebe's shining forehead dusks-
Like the bodyguard of Cherubim which belts her bright abode
When Old Æolus, the Wind-God, sends his blustering sons abroad;
Then the Autumn-Spirit reigneth over mountain, vale and plain,
And the bushes bear the symbols of the Autumn-Spirit's reign!
When the clouds appear like phantoms from the castle-keep of Care,
And the sky looks pale and lurid as the forehead of Despair,
When the Lake appears to labour with the Mountain's mighty form,
Wombed within her glassy deeps, to be delivered by the Storm,
As a starry midnight Heaven, brooding full of unborn Thought,
Waits and watches for the Bard by whom deliverance is brought,
When the aspect of the hills becomes more solemn, still, and strange,
And all Nature seems prophetic of some dark and deadly change,
And the Earth looks up in agony as if her end were nigh,
Whilst sable clouds, like sepulchres, hang in the hollow sky;
Then the Autumn-Spirit reigneth over mountain, vale and plain,
And the weather wears the symbols of the Autumn-Spirit's reign!
When the whirlwinds rock the steeples, and the hurricane sweeps by,
And the frown of God hangs glooming in the tempest-laden sky,
Till a gleaming gulf of lightning lays the Heart of Heaven bare,
And the growls of prisoned Thunder hurtle through the darkened air,
Then the giant rocks are splintered, and the oaks are cloven down,
And the Alpine crags, unwintered, wear a fierce and fiery crown,
While the mingled wrath of Tempests upon mountain, vale and plain,
Dashes down a fiery deluge and a surging sea of rain,
Till the roads are turned to rivers, and the rivers turned to roads,
Where the wealth of golden harvest-shocks the rushing torrent loads,
And the roar of rushing rivers, mixed with Ocean's hollow boom,
In the language of the Angels seems to sing the Song of Doom;
Then the Autumn-Spirit reigneth over mountain, vale and plain,
And the Storm is clad in symbols of the Autumn-Spirit's reign!
But the golden grain is gathered, and the glowing fruit no more,
With its purple globes and crimson, makes the branches kiss the floor;
And, anon, by wizard Winter in a snowy mantle dressed,
Sleeping Nature will be pressing Death's pale image to her breast;
For the golden gorgeous splendours of the Summer have decayed,
And brown Autumn's ghostly garb is on the Earth's green shoulders laid,
While she bows in silent homage to that pale and pensive train
Of Stars, that smile down glory on the Autumn-Spirit's reign!
poem by William Billington
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Pet-Lamb
A PASTORAL
THE dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
I heard a voice; it said, 'Drink, pretty creature, drink!'
And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied
A snow-white mountain-lamb with a Maiden at its side.
Nor sheep nor kine were near; the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel,
While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening meal.
The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,
Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook.
'Drink, pretty creature, drink,' she said in such a tone
That I almost received her heart into my own.
'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!
I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair.
Now with her empty can the Maiden turned away:
But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.
Right towards the lamb she looked; and from a shady place
I unobserved could see the workings of her face:
If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,
Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little Maid might sing:
'What ails thee, young One? what? Why pull so at thy cord?
Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board?
Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be;
Rest, little young One, rest; what is't that aileth thee?
'What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart?
Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art:
This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers;
And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!
'If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,
This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain;
For rain and mountain-storms! the like thou need'st not fear,
The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.
'Rest, little young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day
When my father found thee first in places far away;
Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none,
And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone.
'He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home:
A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam?
A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean
Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been.
'Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can
Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran;
And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew,
I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.
'Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now,
Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough;
My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.
'It will not, will not rest!--Poor creature, can it be
That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in thee?
Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,
And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.
'Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair!
I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there;
The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play,
When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.
'Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky;
Night and day thou art safe,--our cottage is hard by.
Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain?
Sleep--and at break of day I will come to thee again!'
--As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,
This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;
And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,
That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was 'mine'.
Again, and once again, did I repeat the song;
'Nay,' said I, 'more than half to the damsel must belong,
For she looked with such a look and she spake with such a tone,
That I almost received her heart into my own.'
poem by William Wordsworth
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Farewell
FAREWELL, thou little Nook of mountain-ground,
Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair
Of that magnificent temple which doth bound
One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare;
Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair,
The loveliest spot that man hath ever found,
Farewell!--we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care,
Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround.
Our boat is safely anchored by the shore,
And there will safely ride when we are gone;
The flowering shrubs that deck our humble door
Will prosper, though untended and alone:
Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none:
These narrow bounds contain our private store
Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine upon;
Here are they in our sight--we have no more.
Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell!
For two months now in vain we shall be sought:
We leave you here in solitude to dwell
With these our latest gifts of tender thought;
Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat,
Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell!
Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought,
And placed together near our rocky Well.
We go for One to whom ye will be dear;
And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed,
Our own contrivance, Building without peer!
--A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred,
Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered,
With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer,
Will come to you; to you herself will wed;
And love the blessed life that we lead here.
Dear Spot! which we have watched with tender heed,
Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown
Among the distant mountains, flower and weed,
Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own,
Making all kindness registered and known;
Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed,
Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,
Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need.
And O most constant, yet most fickle Place,
Thou hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show
To them who look not daily on thy face;
Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know,
And say'st, when we forsake thee, 'Let them go!'
Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race
Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow,
And travel with the year at a soft pace.
Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by,
And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best;
Joy will be flown in its mortality;
Something must stay to tell us of the rest.
Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast
Glittered at evening like a starry sky;
And in this bush our sparrow built her nest,
Of which I sang one song that will not die.
O happy Garden! whose seclusion deep
Hath been so friendly to industrious hours;
And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep
Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers,
And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers;
Two burning months let summer overleap,
And, coming back with Her who will be ours,
Into thy bosom we again shall creep.
poem by William Wordsworth
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Of Words And Dance...
Do you dance? Will you dance with me for
the rest of our lives?
I shall dance with you, through trouble times.
I shall dance with you in the dark of night.
We shall dance and skate on a rainy day.
We shall skip and dance our worries away.
We will dance with our children, and our friends,
through life.
Dance, yes we will, in laughter or tears.
Dance, on the stage of life, that we live.
Dance, through the hardships and troubles of life.
And will you dance with me, thou I am sad?
For I know that dance, will make me glad.
And when you weep, fear not my love,
I'll dance you to a happy place.
We'll dance among a field of flowers,
as the stars above, become our shower.
And the moon shall smile as it sees us dance,
two in love...twirling a ballet of life.
And do you say, will we tire of our dance? Na,
for with you as my love...life is a ball. Life is a dance
of love and that shall never end
Dance With Me...
Do you dance? Will you dance with me for
the rest of our lives?
I shall dance with you, through trouble times.
I shall dance with you in the dark of night.
We shall dance and skate on a rainy day.
We shall skip and dance our worries away.
We will dance with our children, and our friends,
through life.
Dance, yes we will, in laughter or tears.
Dance, on the stage of life, that we live.
Dance, through the hardships and troubles of life.
And will you dance with me, thou I am sad?
For I know that dance, will make me glad.
And when you weep, fear not my love,
I'll dance you to a happy place.
We'll dance among a field of flowers,
as the stars above, become our shower.
And the moon shall smile as it sees us dance,
two in love...twirling a ballet of life.
And do you say, will we tire of our dance? Na,
for with you as my love...life is a ball. Life is a dance
of love... that shall never end.
O'Donohue's Mistress
Of all the fair months, that round the sun
In light-link'd dance their circles run,
Sweet May, shine thou for me;
For still, when thy earliest beams arise,
That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies,
Sweet May, returns to me.
Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves
Its lingering smile on golden eves,
Fair lake, thou'rt dearest to me;
For when the last April sun grows dim
Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him
Who dwells, bright lake, in thee.
Of all the proud steeds that ever bore
Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore,
White Steed, most joy to thee;
Who still, with the first young glance of spring,
From under that glorious lake dost bring
My love, my chief, to me.
While, white as the sail some bark unfurls,
When newly launch'd, thy long mane curls,
Fair Steed, as white and free;
And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers,
Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers,
Around my love and thee.
Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,
Most sweet that death will be,
Which, under the next May evening's light,
When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,
Dear love, I'll die for thee.
poem by Thomas Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pet-Lamb, The: A Pastoral Poem
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!"
And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied
A snow-white mountain-lamb with a Maiden at its side.
Nor sheep nor kine were near; the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;
With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel,
While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening meal.
The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,
Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure
shook.
"Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said in such a tone
That I almost received her heart into my own.
'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!
I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair.
Now with her empty can the Maiden turned away:
But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.
Right towards the lamb she looked; and from a shady place
I unobserved could see the workings of her face:
If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,
Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little Maid might sing:
"What ails thee, young One? what? Why pull so at thy cord?
Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board?
Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be;
Rest, little young One, rest; what is't that aileth thee?
"What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart?
Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art:
This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers;
And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!
"If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,
This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain;
For rain and mountain-storms! the like thou need'st not fear,
The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.
"Rest, little young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day
When my father found thee first in places far away;
Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none,
And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone.
"He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home:
A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam?
A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean
Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been.
"Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can
Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran;
And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew,
I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.
"Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now,
Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough;
My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.
"It will not, will not rest!--Poor creature, can it be
That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in thee?
Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,
And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.
"Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair!
I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there;
The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play,
When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.
"Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky;
Night and day thou art safe,--our cottage is hard by.
Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain?
Sleep--and at break of day I will come to thee again!"
--As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,
This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;
And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,
That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was 'mine'.
Again, and once again, did I repeat the song;
"Nay," said I, "more than half to the damsel must belong,
For she looked with such a look and she spake with such a tone,
That I almost received her heart into my own."
poem by William Wordsworth
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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