En.Citatepedia^®.ro

To Me At My Fifth-Floor Window

To me at my fifth-floor window
The chimney-pots in rows
Are sets of pipes pandean
For every wind that blows;

And the smoke that whirls and eddies
In a thousand times and keys
Is really a visible music
Set to my reveries.

O monstrous pipes, melodious
With fitful tune and dream,
The clouds are your only audience,
Her thought is your only theme!

poem by William Ernest Henley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Piper On The Hills

A CHILD'S SONG
There sits a piper on the hill
Who pipes the livelong day,
And when he pipes both loud and shrill,
The frightened people say
‘The wind, the wind is blowing up,
'Tis rising to a gale.’
The women hurry to the shore
To watch some distant sail.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing to a gale.
But when he pipes all sweet and low,
The piper on the hill,
I hear the merry women go
With laughter, loud and shrill
‘The wind, the wind is coming south,
'Twill blow a gentle day.’
They gather on the meadow-land,
To toss the yellow hay.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing south to-day.

And in the morn, when winter comes,
To keep the piper warm,
The little Angels shake their wings
To make a feather storm
‘The snow, the snow has come at last!’
The happy children call,
And ‘ring around’ they dance in glee,
And watch the snowflakes fall.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Has spread a snowy pall.
But when at night the piper plays,
I have not any fear,
Because God's windows open wide
The pretty tune to hear;
And when each crowding spirit looks,
From its star window-pane,
A watching mother may behold
Her little child again.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
May blow her home again.

poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Music

Down the quiet eve,
Thro' my window with the sunset
Pipes to me a distant organ
Foolish ditties;

And, as when you change
Pictures in a magic lantern,
Books, beds, bottles, floor, and ceiling
Fade and vanish,

And I'm well once more . . .
August flares adust and torrid,
But my heart is full of April
Sap and sweetness.

In the quiet eve
I am loitering, longing, dreaming . . .
Dreaming, and a distant organ
Pipes me ditties.

I can see the shop,
I can smell the sprinkled pavement,
Where she serves-her chestnut chignon
Thrills my senses!

O, the sight and scent,
Wistful eve and perfumed pavement!
In the distance pipes an organ . . .
The sensation

Comes to me anew,
And my spirit for a moment
Thro' the music breathes the blessed
Airs of London.

poem by William Ernest Henley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Black clouds of smoke rise
Escaping out of steel pipes;
Seek the blue of sky…

haiku by Mamta Agarwal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Peaceful Pipes

I sat in our caravan
as the peaceful pipes
played a soft reverie of harmony
for all those who heard its song.
Their melody drifted on the wind
soothing everything it touched.
The peaceful pipes played
at the ending of the day.

27 September 2008

poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Forest Lord for S.J.Gardner

As I walked out beneath the moon
I heard that old compelling tune
The Pipes of Pan that faintly play
have power to steal my will away.

The old God rules the forest yet
I know he does I can’t forget.
I was forced to follow the sound.
Although I know he can’t be found.

Unless he chooses to reveal
he is alive and well and real.
To tell the truth I found it odd
For Pan is a forgotten God.

He has the power to overrule
with music as his only tool.
My hardened shell of disbelief
and in some way grant me relief.

From all the woes which trouble me.
So for a little while I’m free,
to leave reality behind.
For long enough to still my mind.

I might be only fantasy.
I’m well ware that it could be
Although I try I can’t explain
the forest is till Pans domain.

Then suddenly the music ceased.
I knew that I had been released.
I still cherish the memory
Of the night Pan played pipes for me..

28-Oct-08

http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Winds Of Wyoming

Have you ever heard the wind
blowing across the plains?
Moving and stacking snow
in drifts across the lane
Have you heard the wind howling
like a wolf baying at the moon?
It's an eerie and unnerving feeling
making up its melodious tune
Have you ever watched the trees
bending to and fro in the wind?
Leaves blow off and scatter around
it's mother nature who has sinned
Have you heard the windows rattle
as the wind blows through the cracks?
The draft blows under each of the doors
it's coming in from the back
The wind is part of our landscape
and it's with us most everyday
But we love Wyoming wind that's true
it's ours and we're here to stay

poem by Louise Davis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Veille

Pipes de nuit pipes du jour
Tout l'opium ô chevelures
Les cheveux bruns de mon amour
Et ces lenteurs tandis que dure
L'éveil des monstres tour à tour

poem by Guillaume Apollinaire
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Hanover Winter Song

Ho, a song by the fire;
Pass the pipes, pass the bowl.
Ho, a song by the fire
With a skoal, with a skoal.
Ho, a song by the fire;
Pass the pipes with a skoal,
For the wolf-wind is wailing at the doorways,
And the snow drifts deep along the road,
And the ice gnomes are marching from their Norways,
And the great white cold walks abroad.

But, here by the fire, we defy frost and storm;
Ha, ha we are warm, and we have our heart's desire.
For here, we're good fellows, and the beechwood and the bellows;
And the cup is at the lip in the pledge of fellowship.
Oh, here by the fire, we defy frost and storm;
Ha, ha, we are warm, and we have our heart's desire.
For here we're good fellows, and the beechwood and the bellows.
And the cup is at the lip in the pledge of fellowship,
Of fellowship

Pile the logs on the fire;
Fill the pipes, pass the bowl.
Pile the logs on the fire
With a skoal, with a skoal.
Pile the logs on the fire;
Fill the pipes with a skoal,
For the fire goblins flicker on the ceiling,
And the wine witch glitters in the glass,
And the smoke wraiths are drifting, curling, reeling,
And the sleigh bells jingle as they pass.

But, here by the fire, we defy frost and storm;
Ha, ha we are warm, and we have our heart's desire.
For here, we're good fellows, and the beechwood and the bellows;
And the cup is at the lip in the pledge of fellowship.
Oh, here by the fire, we defy frost and storm;
Ha, ha, we are warm, and we have our heart's desire.
For here we're good fellows, and the beechwood and the bellows.
And the cup is at the lip in the pledge of fellowship,
Of fellowship

Oh, a God is the fire;
Pull the pipes, drain the bowl.
Oh, a God is the fire
With a skoal, with a skoal.
Oh, a God is the fire;
Pull the pipes with a skoal,
For the room has a spirit in the embers,
Tis a God and our fathers knew his name,
And they worship'd him in long-forgot Decembers,
And their hearts leap'd high with the flame.

poem by Richard Hovey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

What The Chimney Sang

Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
And the Woman stopped, as her babe she tossed,
And thought of the one she had long since lost,
And said, as her teardrops back she forced,
'I hate the wind in the chimney.'

Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
And the Children said, as they closer drew,
'`Tis some witch that is cleaving the black night through,
`Tis a fairy trumpet that just then blew,
And we fear the wind in the chimney.'

Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
And the Man, as he sat on his hearth below,
Said to himself, 'It will surely snow,
And fuel is dear and wages low,
And I`ll stop the leak in the chimney.'

Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
But the Poet listened and smiled, for he
Was Man and Woman and Child, all three,
And said, 'It is God`s own harmony,
This wind we hear in the chimney.'

poem by Francis Bret Harte
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A Wind From... Elsewhere

The wind blows here... the wind blows there
The wind seems to blow from... everywhere.
But the wind I love... when it blows... blows fair...
This wind... when it blows... blows from... ELSEWHERE! Can you see its graceful fingers... playing in your hair?
Nay! You cannot see the wind... e'en though you know it's there.
It's flitting... it's flirting... it's prancing everywhere
This wind... when it blows... blows from... ELSEWHERE! It blows unexpectedly... with a gentle breeze... it blows...
The Great Hand of Miracles... brings it... then it goes
To greet the early morning sun... to dance to and fro
From the highest, loftiest mountain heights... to valleys... far below. 'Who is He that sitteth upon the circle of the earth...
Who gathereth the winds in his fists—Who maketh a wind to pass over...
Thou hearest the sound thereof...
But canst not tell whence it cometh... and wither it goeth.' The wind blows here... the wind blows there...
The wind seems to blow... from everywhere.
But the wind I love... when it blows... blows fair—
This wind... when it blows... blows from... ELSEWHERE!

poem by Elga Haymon White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Snowflake

When the day dawns
Bright and crisp,
The snow yet to fall
Hovers on the horizon
In laden black clouds.
The chill air hangs ice,
Breathing on trees,
Sliding down drain pipes
Making zylophone icicles,
Playing a winter's tune
The wind whips scintilling,
Vibrating the telephone lines.
An aolian harp, zinging,
Then a silence covers the land,
Shivering in antisipation......
Awaiting the first snowflake.

P. H. Brookes Copyright 2012.

poem by Paul Brookes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

So Satisfying

The musician struggles with a tune all night
and tries to keep it near.
Sometimes it slips right through the ear.
At times it's gone I fear.

A cursed blankness creates a loss
and in the morn you sigh.
'Should the theme have ended low
or have taken the notes up high?

That tune is gone but the quest goes on
and the music comes alive.
A theme is finally completed
and so you let it survive.

Over and over it plays in the head
and will not be subdued.
To the musician that wrestled with the notes
the completion is just like food.
So satisfying.

poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Orator.

He has a charm that sets each thought to music,
So rare an utterance, whoso hears him feels
Even a prosy theme has poesy
When a magician takes its study on.
So setting every subject to the tune
Of a due and endowed delivery,
The matter and the manner seem to steal
Like meeting music on the listening ear,
And crowded benches lurk to linger on
His latest note, as if a siren sung;
So sweet a fascination has the power
Of language when used by an orator.

poem by Robert Crawford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The River Song

This boat is of shato-wood, and its gunwales are cut
magnolia,
Musicians with jewelled flutes and with pipes of gold
Fill full the sides in rows, and our wine
Is rich for a thousand cups.
We carry singing girls, drift with the drifting water,
Yet Sennin needs
A yellow stork for a charger, and all our seamen
Would follow the white gulls or ride them.
Kutsu's prose song
Hangs with the sun and moon.

King So's terraced palace
is now but barren hill,
But I draw pen on this barge
Causing the five peaks to tremble,
And I have joy in these words
like the joy of blue islands.
(If glory could last forever
Then the waters of Han would flow northward.)

And I have moped in the Emperor's garden, awaiting an
order-to-write !
I looked at the dragon-pond, with its willow-coloured
water
Just reflecting the sky's tinge,
And heard the five-score nightingales aimlessly singing.

The eastern wind brings the green colour into the island
grasses at Yei-shu,
The purple house and the crimson are full of Spring
softness.
South of the pond the willow-tips are half-blue and
bluer,
Their cords tangle in mist, against the brocade-like
palace.
Vine-strings a hundred feet long hang down from
carved railings,
And high over the willows, the fine birds sing to each
other, and listen,
Crying—‘Kwan, Kuan,' for the early wind, and the feel
of it.
The wind bundles itself into a bluish cloud and wanders
off.
Over a thousand gates, over a thousand doors are the
sounds of spring singing,
And the Emperor is at Ko.
Five clouds hang aloft, bright on the purple sky,
The imperial guards come forth from the golden house
with their armour a-gleaming.
The Emperor in his jewelled car goes out to inspect his
flowers,
He goes out to Hori, to look at the wing-flapping storks,
He returns by way of Sei rock, to hear the new
nightingales,
For the gardens at Jo-run are full of new nightingales,
Their sound is mixed in this flute,
Their voice is in the twelve pipes here.

poem by Ezra Pound
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Tune of The Wild Geese’s Tomb

Among the earthly mortals, I ask: what is Love
That engages couples through life and death?
This flying pair, traveling from south to north,
Had old wings, which survived several summers and winters.
Staying paired is happy,
But to severe, bitter: a trap in itself where devoted lovers
Still long to be trapped. He must have had a thought:
For whom shall I trail a forlorn shadow flying over
Ten thousand miles of gray clouds
And mountains of night snow?
On this road by Fen River, the old pipes, and drums
Are gone. Only bleak smoke and vast woods are left.
Vain to evoke the ancient ghosts. The Mountain Spirit
Also, wails in vain. Heaven envies the geese,
Not believing they’ll return to dust like orioles
And swallows. There they’ll remain, for a thousand
Autumns, awaiting the poets of later generations
Who is coming, rhapsodizing and quaffing
Just for a view of the wild geese’s tomb.

poem by Yuan Haowen
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
Vote! | Copy! | In Romanian

A Poem

A poem in three stages

Whilst eating a meat pie

She embraced vegetarianism

Hidden under the weight of his opinions

[and ever expandng girth]

He 'PUBLICLY DENOUNCED]

third world poverty and hunger

[as he reached for his KING SIZED MARS BAR]

On the coroners report it stated

'Pipes blocked and furry'

'I knew it was his pipes' his wife cried[too late]

'Stupid man, he called the plumber, when I said PIPES!

[Under the rule of the poem this is a disclaimer to say

None of the above characters alludes to real people,

secondly this is not a poem, but an observation.....

of sorts..........depending on how

you read it.It is not flammable or open to erudite intellectuall

debate.....but who knows you could give it a try, if it makes you

feel better

poem by Yvette Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

As the Wind blows..

The leaves dance in the changing directions of the wind,
not stopping it's tune of clapping.
However when the sky becomes sad, rain pours down like tears.
But yet it nourishes the snallest lives.
On days like today, the wind is cool and soothing.
And as the wind blows, it sets my soul free and ever flowing.

poem by Jessie Ward
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Awe gust

The wind whirls
And stirs the dust
Leaving the grass with nothing to anchor

It is the august wind
That blows so viciously
After the winter’s chill
Has tormented the frail shrubs

It blows dust in my face
As if to spite me
For I can do nothing to stop it

But somewhere in me
I smile in defiance
Because I know
That the next season is spring

But unlike the august wind
I have no one to spite
I curse and praise nature at the same time
For the august wind
And the life that buds in spring

Through these episodes
I get exposed
As one with no might
I take whatever she throws
Even if I do not like it
I’m just grateful
That she doesn’t only frown
But smiles at times

poem by Matete Motsoaledi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Rainfall

From out the west, where darkling storm-clouds float,
The 'waking wind pipes soft its rising note.

From out the west, o'erhung with fringes grey,
The wind preludes with sighs its roundelay,

Then blowing, singing, piping, laughing loud,
It scurries on before the grey storm-cloud;

Across the hollow and along the hill
It whips and whirls among the maples, till

With boughs upbent, and green of leaves blown wide,
The silver shines upon their underside.

A gusty freshening of humid air,
With showers laden, and with fragrance rare;

And now a little sprinkle, with a dash
Of great cool drops that fall with sudden splash;

Then over field and hollow, grass and grain,
The loud, crisp whiteness of the nearing rain.

poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A Sonnet (Two Voices Are There)

Two voices are there: one is of the deep;
It learns the storm-cloud's thunderous melody,
Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea,
Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep:
And one is of an old half-witted sheep
Which bleats articulate monotony,
And indicates that two and one are three,
That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep:
And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times
Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes,
The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst:
At other times -- good Lord! I'd rather be
Quite unacquainted with the A.B.C.
Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.

poem by James Kenneth Stephen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!