From The Break The Nightingale
From the brake the Nightingale
Sings exulting to the Rose;
Though he sees her waxing pale
In her passionate repose,
While she triumphs waxing frail,
Fading even while she glows;
Though he knows
How it goes -
Knows of last year's Nightingale
Dead with last year's Rose.
Wise the enamoured Nightingale,
Wise the well-beloved Rose!
Love and life shall still prevail,
Nor the silence at the close
Break the magic of the tale
In the telling, though it shows -
Who but knows
How it goes! -
Life a last year's Nightingale,
Love a last year's Rose.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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In the Spirit of Rumi-40-The Nightingale and the Rose
As cold winter turns to warming Spring,
two lovers return from their winter rest.
The first rose shyly blooms; .
the nightingale pours out its song.
These are the two most generous lovers in the world;
do they not deserve each other?
In the daytime, while the nightingale takes its rest,
renews its generous throat,
the rose opens to embrace the world with beauty;
In the nighttime, while the rose folds and rests in sleep,
waiting to drink that purest dew of dawn,
the nightingale tells the world of beauty;
So each speaks in turn; both speak of beauty;
one in sound, the other in silence.
This way, telling of their love to the sleeping other;
Do they prefer it thus? Or is their listening
as sensitive as a mother’s nighttime intuition,
hearing more clearly, inwardly, in rest?
Which is the Lover, which is the Beloved?
Does the nightingale return in spring
at the first perfume of the rose,
drifting from the hedge and garden
like the messages of Layla and Majnun?
Or does the rose wait impatiently to bloom in Spring
until it hears – its petals trembling as they listen –
the nightingale’s song from that liquid throat?
Which is the Lover, which is the Beloved?
Does it matter to the world?
It matters only if that love is not equal; full;
generous beyond all worldly measure;
and then the Lover has become the Beloved,
the Beloved has become the Lover..
You and I, on our prayer-mat each day,
seeking God within ourselves,
which is the Lover, which the Beloved?
Have we yet become each other,
equal, full, and generous beyond all worldly measure;
night and day, as nightingale and rose?
As nightingales and roses sing forever
of each other's love
eternally, the round world turning, turning..
l'amor che move il sole e l'altre stelle.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Bird Raptures
The sunrise wakes the lark to sing,
The moonrise wakes the nightingale.
Come darkness, moonrise, everything
That is so silent, sweet, and pale,
Come, so ye wake the nightingale.
Make haste to mount, thou wistful moon,
Make haste to wake the nightingale:
Let silence set the world in tune
To hearken to that wordless tale
Which warbles from the nightingale.
O herald skylark, stay thy flight
One moment, for a nightingale
Floods us with sorrow and delight.
To-morrow thou shalt hoist the sail;
Leave us tonight the nightingale.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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First rose
A heart of youthful year was yearning,
Crying out the pain; the burning
Tears would e’er remain until
An answer from the man would see them die.
A sympathetic mirror blessed her –
Softened up the curves, caressed her
Skin to help regain a calm –
Assuage a heaving breast and blushing eye.
And through a struggling mind, a chiming:
Someone at the door; the timing
Perfect and exquisite in the
Reconciliation of her woes.
She took the oak to make the parting,
‘Here! ’ a presentation startling.
Drawing deep through radiant lips, she
Kissed her very dream: a crimson rose.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
rose rose rose rose: : rose rose rose rose
rose rose rose rose: : rose rose rose rose
rose rose rose rose: : rose rose rose rose
rose rose rose rose: : rose rose rose rose
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Those birds
Those birds outside your window at dawn
singing all at once fit to bust –
did you know they migrate from Islam
in the fighting season?
They’re all Sufis: they sleep all night
with the Beloved; and in the morning
they exchange the jokes they heard,
the pillow talk from the night before sleep;
then the blackbird and the thrush
weave these into stories which they sing
all day; then at night the nightingale
makes them all into one beautiful poem
about being intoxicated into song
by the wine of Shiraz; the rose-water wafers;
and how those who say
that one cannot be intoxicated
by the longing for the One
have proved themselves wrong
and proved the nightingale right
as you can know in yourself
when the nightingale sings of this
to the heart’s light pulsing in the stars.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Withered Rose
O withered rose! How can I still call you a rose?
How can I call you the longing of nightingale's heart?
Once the zephyr's movement was your rocking cradle
In the garden's expanse joyous rose was your name
The morning breeze acknowledged your benevolence
The garden was like perfumer's tray by your presence
My weeping eye sheds dew on you
My desolate heart is concealed in your sorrow
You are a tiny picture of my destruction
You are the interpretation of my life's dream
Like a flute to my reed-brake I narrate my story
Listen O rose! I complain about separations!
poem by Allama Muhammad Iqbal
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The Small Nightingale
Nightingale Nightingale
I am a little bird
Nightingale Nightingale
I am a little bird
Oh! god save me!
Oh! lord save me!
I have tried to save myself but i failed to?
Nightingale Nightingale
I am a sorrowful bird
Nightingale Nightingale
I am a sorrowful bird
Oh! god forget about this;
Listen about the frog
The frog was jealous of me as i sing so well
He wants me to die
Nightingale Nightingale
I am a little bird
BUT, I am a dying bird
BUT, I am a dying bird.
Oh! god save me!
Oh! lord save me!
poem by Abhishek Nair
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Nughtingale And Cuckoo
Yes, nightingale and cuckoo! it was meet
That you should come together; for ye twain
Are emblems of the rapture and the pain
That in the April of our life compete,
Until we know not which is the more sweet,
Nor yet have learned that both of them are vain!
Yet wherefore, nightingale! break off thy strain,
While yet the cuckoo doth his call repeat?
Not so with me. To sweet woe did I cling
Long after echoing happiness was dead,
And so found solace. Now, alas! the sting!
Cuckoo and nightingale alike have fled;
Neither for joy nor sorrow do I sing,
And autumn silence gathers in their stead.
poem by Alfred Austin
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The Three Maidens
There were three maidens met on the highway;
The sun was down, the night was late:
And two sang loud with the birds of May,
O the nightingale is merry with its mate.
Said they to the youngest, Why walk you there so still?
The land is dark, the night is late:
O, but the heart in my side is ill,
And the nightingale will languish for its mate.
Said they to the youngest, Of lovers there is store;
The moon mounts up, the night is late:
O, I shall look on man no more,
And the nightingale is dumb without its mate.
Said they to the youngest, Uncross your arms and sing;
The moon mounts high, the night is late:
O my dear lover can hear no thing,
And the nightingale sings only to its mate.
They slew him in revenge, and his true-love was his lure;
The moon is pale, the night is late:
His grave is shallow on the moor;
O the nightingale is dying for its mate.
His blood is on his breast, and the moss-roots at his hair;
The moon is chill, the night is late:
But I will lie beside him there:
O the nightingale is dying for its mate.
poem by George Meredith
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Just One Rose...
that's a homework i need you to tell me if i should hand it to the teacher or not...(:
just one rose, a pretty rose...
just one rose for me with no coze...
just one rose pure and true...
just one rose for me is all i can do...
just one rose somewhere out there...
just one rose for me to care...
just one rose when dark days prevail...
just one rose when people only use petrail...
just one rose and all the time...
just one rosefor me is a crime...
poem by rose of death XxX
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The Mirror Of Diana
Popular Name for Lake Nemi.
SHE floats into the quiet skies,
Where, in the circle of hills,
Her immemorial mirror fills
With light, as of a Virgin's eyes
When, love a-tremble in their blue,
They glow twin violets dipped in dew.
Mild as a metaphor of Sleep,
Immaculately maiden-white,
The Queen Moon of ancestral night
Beholds her image in the deep:
As if a-gaze she beams above
Lake Nemi's magic glass of love.
White rose, white lily of the vale,
Perfume the even breath of night;
In many a burst of sweet delight
The love throb of the nightingale
Swells through lush flowering woods and fills
The circle of the listening hills.
White rose, white lily of the skies,
The Moon-flower blossoms in the lake;
The nightingale for her fair sake
With hopeless love's impassioned cries
Seems fain to sing till song must kill
Himself with one tumultuous trill.
And all the songs and all the scents,
The light of glowworms and the fires
Of fire-flies in the cypress spires;
And all the wild wind instruments
Of pine and ilex as the breeze
Sweeps out their mystic harmonies;--
All are but Messengers of May
To that white orb of maiden fire
Who fills the moth with mad desire
To die enamoured in her ray,
And turns each dewdrop in the grass
Into a fairy looking-glass.
O Beauty, far and far above
The night moth and the nightingale!
Far, far above life's narrow pale,
O Unattainable! O Love!
Even as the nightingale we cry
For some Ideal set on high.
Haunting the deep reflective mind,
You may surprise its perfect Sphere
Glassed like the Moon within her mere,
Who at a puff of alien wind
Melts in innumerable rings,
Elusive in the flux of things.
poem by Mathilde Blind
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0011 Blown Rose Wise
How wise
the rose?
near the shortest day,
the seasons all confused this year
even the great globe itself
confused by man
and on this gusty day
a rose throws
itself upon the world
simultaneously hero, heroine, victim
seen calling through the window;
if it were a child alone out there
you would rush out to save it
does the rose know
how beautiful it is?
or is it wiser than we are,
knows more of love?
of law?
looks tenderly upon
man’s need for beauty,
frail reassurance
of the beauty of our own soul
any moment now
the wind will tear its weakening petals
yet I saw it while it lasted, as if
the only rose in the world
and before it returned
to wherever the souls of roses
sigh, laugh, smile,
return to eternal Rose
it wrote this poem in – to it –
an unfamiliar language
that tried to translate
its beauty into me
wiser, in some way,
than I
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Nightingale
Nightingale
Sing us a song
Of a love that once belonged
Nightingale
Tell me your tale
Was your journey far too long?
Does it seem like I'm looking for an answer
To a question I can't ask
I don't know which way the feather falls
Or if i should blow it to the left
All the voices that are spinnin' around me
Trying to tell me what to say
Can I fly right behind you
And you can take me away
song performed by by Norah Jones from Come Away With Me
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In the strips of woods [În arcane de pădure]
In the strips of woods, the darkness in a scary way is clinging.
Both the crowded leaves are silent and the slender trees, so high;
Night is dumb, and sad, and dying, sheltered by the opaque sky,
But the nightingale is singing, but the nightingale is singing.
In the strips of woods, the tempest in a scary way is spinning,
Sending down a flood of water and a crimson bolt of flame;
Why is harmony a nuisance and a fury without aim,
But the nightingale is singing, but the nightingale is singing.
In the strips of woods, the terror with the quietness is mingling,
Late aurora under foliage cannot come to light the moss,
For in front of it the darkness blocks the way and lies across –
But the nightingale is singing, but the nightingale is singing.
poem by Alexandru Macedonski, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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The Rose
We love the land when the world goes round,
And deep, deep down in her thorny ground,
Where nobody comes, and nobody knows,
We love the Rose. Oh! we love the Rose.
And none to tell us, and none to teach
By the western hedge or the shelving beach,
But all of us know what everyone knows,
We love the Rose. Oh! we love the Rose.
We love the rose when our day is dead,
And they lay their roses upon our bed;
Too late! Too late! in our last repose!
But we love the Rose. Ah! we love the Rose.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Still A Rose
A rose is a rose every day, every night
You too are the same, except different in my sight
You are like a rose, such a beautiful creation
But a rose in disguise, meant to blume for every nation
So show your beauty, for I know what you are
You are a rose in disguise, and very, very wise
A rose is a rose is a rose.....
poem by Pearl Adaeze Okafor
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A Rose In Disguise
A rose is a rose every day, every night
You too are the same, except different in my sight
You are like a rose, such a beautiful creation
But a rose in disguise, meant to blume for every nation
So show your beauty, for I know what you are
You are a rose in disguise, and very, very wise
A rose is a rose is a rose.....
poem by Sarah Mellberg
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What A Rose Can Say
A rose can say I love you and want you to be mine,
A rose can say I thank you for being so very kind,
A rose can say congratulations, whatever the occasion may be,
A rose can say I miss you and wish you were here with me,
A rose can say I'm sorry if I've hurt you in any way,
A rose can say get well soon, May God bless you today,
A rose can say I wish you happiness, and the best for you each day.
A rose can say farewel when someone goes away,
A rose can say hello, I'm thinking of you today,
There's just so many wonderful things that a rose can say,
A rose can say goodbye when a love one is laid to rest,
No matter what there is to say, a rose can say it best.
poem by Margie Driver
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In Silence
You left the lines blank for me love
And again you ask why wrote my plaint
When you are in front of me I am lost
In the beauty of your hair your lips
In the gazelle eyes and the music
From the tongue that licks honey
When I open my mouth for my words
You place your finger on your lips
Enter the silence of my love else
I leave you in the oblivions vast
Like a flute from the reed in silence
Wail I long as separated from beloved
You make my silence in colors float
When in the bloom of spring I enter
The garden where nightingale sings
In silence sitting by the rose
In silence my love I live in thou
7/2/2009
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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Nightingale
(ferry/manzanera)
Before the morning comes, will I hear your song
Come little nightingale, I wont be here for long
When youre up there flying, do you care
If theres no one else around?
When your lover leaves you in the air
Do you waver, do you fall?
Now while the moon is high
Shall we, nightingale,
Duet all through the night
A pair of souls for sale
Stars cluster glistening
Captive till the dawn
Patiently listening
Theyve heard it all before
Should I stay here or should I go?
I couldnt bear to be alone
Was it really love I saw?
Oh, now Ill never know
What is this I hear?
I recognise that song
Sweet little nightingale I knew youd come along
Soon when the morning comes.
We will both be gone
So sing pretty nightingale
Lead, Ill follow on.
song performed by by Roxy Music
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Faithful Witness
To the firstborn of Yahseph,
Of all that is created;
To the secondborn of Yahseph,
Do set set your mind on Mount Zion;
For His name is His glory and,
Of the economic well-being.
Of the year of the rat,
Of the year of the dog,
Of the year of the cow,
Of the year of the bull,
Of the year of the sheep,
Of the year of the dragon,
Of the year of the snake,
Of the year of the pig,
Of the year of the goat,
Of the year of the lizard,
Of the year of the crocodile,
Of the year of the elephant,
Of the year of the scorpion,
Of the year of the turtle,
Of the year of the fish,
Of the year of the earth,
Of the year of the wind,
Of the year of the fire,
Of the year of the water,
And of the year of the bush!
Like the firstborns of slaves.
The hips of romance,
The faithful witness will not lie;
The same day,
The same night,
Of the love shared at where no oxen are;
And the crib was very clean.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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