Trees And The Menace Of Night
Trees and the menace of night;
Then a long, lonely, leaden mere
Backed by a desolate fell,
As by a spectral battlement; and then,
Low-brooding, interpenetrating all,
A vast, gray, listless, inexpressive sky,
So beggared, so incredibly bereft
Of starlight and the song of racing worlds,
It might have bellied down upon the Void
Where as in terror Light was beginning to be.
Hist! In the trees fulfilled of night
(Night and the wretchedness of the sky)
Is it the hurry of the rain?
Or the noise of a drive of the Dead,
Streaming before the irresistible Will
Through the strange dusk of this, the Debateable Land
Between their place and ours?
Like the forgetfulness
Of the work-a-day world made visible,
A mist falls from the melancholy sky.
A messenger from some lost and loving soul,
Hopeless, far wandered, dazed
Here in the provinces of life,
A great white moth fades miserably past.
Thro' the trees in the strange dead night,
Under the vast dead sky,
Forgetting and forgot, a drift of Dead
Sets to the mystic mere, the phantom fell,
And the unimagined vastitudes beyond.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Related quotes
Exile
I
At dead of night about the dying fire
They told a story how the dead appear;
And men, grown still with fear,
Forgot their old desire
For those who once were dear,
And shook and trembled lest their dead be near.
Alas, poor dead who were so sweet and human!
How are you grown a menace and a blight
A thing to shun, a thing of evil omen,
Stealing unwelcome through the halls of night?,
Who knows? perhaps yourselves are much affrighted,
And struggle back, remote and bodiless,
Fearful of sounds unheard, visions unsighted,
Black echoes, and the bitter loneliness.
But for me, in my heart is no dread
Of the coming again of the dead,
But a terror of life, without one
Who made life to be life - and is gone.
II
Yes, at these tales of how the dead return,
Hope stirs within my spirit more than fear.
So strange, so strange it seems, you are not here,
And so unnatural to me 'tis to learn
The trick of life without you, year by year,
That not so strange could any specter be
Or fall of footsteps on the empty stair,
Or shapes discerned upon the shadowy air,
As is this haunting sense of vacancy,
And your persisting absence everywhere.
Ah, could I see, as in the tranquil past,
The form I long for - always and in vain, -
Should I not cry, like one released from pain:
'Dear and long absent, you return at last,
And life its natural aspect wears again!'
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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Beleaguered City, The
I have read, in some old, marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.
Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.
White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flowed between.
No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.
But when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air.
Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.
I have read, in the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,
That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.
Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.
Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the River of Life between.
No other voice nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of Life's wave.
And when the solemn and deep churchbell
Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.
Down the broad Vale of Tears afar
The spectral camp is fled;
Faith shineth as a morning star,
Our ghastly fears are dead.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Voices Of The Night : The Beleaguered City
I have read, in some old, marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.
Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.
White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flowed between.
No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.
But when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air.
Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.
I have read, in the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,
That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.
Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.
Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the River of Life between.
No other voice nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of Life's wave.
And when the solemn and deep churchbell
Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.
Down the broad Vale of Tears afar
The spectral camp is fled;
Faith shineth as a morning star,
Our ghastly fears are dead.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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All Souls
I
A THIN moon faints in the sky o'erhead,
And dumb in the churchyard lie the dead.
Walk we not, Sweet, by garden ways,
Where the late rose hangs and the phlox delays,
But forth of the gate and down the road,
Past the church and the yews, to their dim abode.
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.
II
Fear not that sound like wind in the trees:
It is only their call that comes on the breeze;
Fear not the shudder that seems to pass:
It is only the tread of their feet on the grass;
Fear not the drip of the bough as you stoop:
It is only the touch of their hands that grope -
For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
When the dead can yearn and the dead can smite.
III
And where should a man bring his sweet to woo
But here, where such hundreds were lovers too?
Where lie the dead lips that thirst to kiss,
The empty hands that their fellows miss,
Where the maid and her lover, from sere to green,
Sleep bed by bed, with the worm between?
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.
IV
And now that they rise and walk in the cold,
Let us warm their blood and give youth to the old.
Let them see us and hear us, and say: 'Ah, thus
In the prime of the year it went with us!'
Till their lips drawn close, and so long unkist,
Forget they are mist that mingles with mist!
For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
When the dead can burn and the dead can smite.
V
Till they say, as they hear us - poor dead, poor dead! -
'Just an hour of this, and our age-long bed -
Just a thrill of the old remembered pains
To kindle a flame in our frozen veins,
Just a touch, and a sight, and a floating apart,
As the chill of dawn strikes each phantom heart -
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear, and the dead have sight.'
VI
And where should the living feel alive
But here in this wan white humming hive,
As the moon wastes down, and the dawn turns cold,
And one by one they creep back to the fold?
And where should a man hold his mate and say:
'One more, one more, ere we go their way'?
For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
When the living can learn by the churchyard light.
VII
And how should we break faith who have seen
Those dead lips plight with the mist between,
And how forget, who have seen how soon
They lie thus chambered and cold to the moon?
How scorn, how hate, how strive, we too,
Who must do so soon as those others do?
For it's All Souls' night, and break of the day,
And behold, with the light the dead are away. . . .
poem by Edith Wharton
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Day And Night
NIGHT, ambushed in the darkling wood,
Waited to seize the sleeping field,
His sentinels the pine trees stood
Till the sun fell beneath his shield.
Then when the day at last was dead,
Night, in his might, marched conquering
Across the land his banner spread
And reigned as victor and as King.
And you and I--all days apart
Rejoiced to see Night's victory,
Because he has a kindlier heart
Than Day wears with his sovereignty:
Day keeps us prisoned close, but Night
Lifts off Day's chains, and all night through
You dream of me, my life's delight,
And all night through I dream of you.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Dead Next Door
Watch the sky
For a reason why
Im safe here
Sunday it was part
Monday it was none
Monday was none
For the dead next door
One pair of silent terror reins
And were the dead next door
The heat of the day fades away
Fades into the night
The heat of the day
Offering a wedding
Suffering away
For the dead next door
You see
One error, silent terror
And were the dead next door
In animal land
And dark is in command
One thing you should know
Dont hear that knocking
Dont eat out of their hand
Dont stumble, die
You say
Dont stumble, cry
They see you and me
You and me
With the dead next door
You and me
With the dead next door
You and me
With the dead next door
song performed by by Billy Idol
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Among the Trees
I wonder lost among the trees
Looking for the one my heart calls for
I wonder lost among the trees
I see your light amongst the dark
I wonder lost among the trees
Your light is brighter then the rest
I wonder lost among the trees
Your light is out of my reach
I wonder lost among the trees
Your light comes closer
I wonder lost among the trees
Your light is bright like an angel from the sky
I wonder lost among the trees
Your light fades away and leaves me alone
I wonder lost among the trees
Without a hand to guide the way
I wonder lost among the trees
Looking for my guiding light
I wonder lost among the trees
I wonder lost, alone
I wonder afraid of the world
Around me I look for the one
I wonder lost among the trees
I wonder lost and alone forever...................................
poem by kelly Martini
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Long Live Rock
Down at the astoria the scene was changing,
Bingo and rock were pushing out x-rating,
We were the first band to vomit in the bar,
And find the distance to the stage too far,
Meanwhile its getting late at ten oclock,
Rock is dead they say,
Long live rock.
Long live rock, I need it every night,
Long live rock, come on and join the line,
Long live rock, be it dead or alive.
People walk in sideways pretending that theyre leaving,
We put on our makeup and work out all the lead-ins,
Jack is in the alley selling tickets made in hong kong,
Promoters in the pay box wondering where the bands gone,
Back in the pub the governor stops the clock,
Rock is dead, they say,
Long live rock.
Long live rock, I need it every night,
Long live rock, come on and join the line,
Long live rock, be it dead or alive.
Landslide, rocks are falling,
Falling down round our very heads,
We tried but you were yawning,
Look again, rock is dead, rock is dead, rock is dead.
The place is really jumping to the high-watt amps,
til a 20-inch cymbal fell and cut the lamps,
In the blackout they dance right into the aisle,
And as the doors fly open even the promoter smiles,
Someone takes his pants off and the rafters knock,
Rock is dead, they say,
Long live rock, long live rock, long live rock.
Long live rock, long live rock, long live rock,
Long live rock, long live rock, long live rock.
Long live rock, I need it every night,
Long live rock, come on and join the line,
Long live rock, be it dead or alive.
song performed by by Who
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Finding
From the candles and dumb shadows,
And the house where love had died,
I stole to the vast moonlight
And the whispering life outside.
But I found no lips of comfort,
No home in the moon's light
(I, little and lone and frightened
In the unfriendly night),
And no meaning in the voices. . . .
Far over the lands and through
The dark, beyond the ocean,
I willed to think of you!
For I knew, had you been with me
I'd have known the words of night,
Found peace of heart, gone gladly
In comfort of that light.
Oh! the wind with soft beguiling
Would have stolen my thought away;
And the night, subtly smiling,
Came by the silver way;
And the moon came down and danced to me,
And her robe was white and flying;
And trees bent their heads to me
Mysteriously crying;
And dead voices wept around me;
And dead soft fingers thrilled;
And the little gods whispered. . . .
But ever
Desperately I willed;
Till all grew soft and far
And silent . . .
And suddenly
I found you white and radiant,
Sleeping quietly,
Far out through the tides of darkness.
And I there in that great light
Was alone no more, nor fearful;
For there, in the homely night,
Was no thought else that mattered,
And nothing else was true,
But the white fire of moonlight,
And a white dream of you.
poem by Rupert Brooke (1909)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Lubie (Come Back Home)
Down at the Astoria the scene was changing,
Bingo and rock were pushing out X-rating,
We were the first band to vomit in the bar,
And find the distance to the stage too far,
Meanwhile it's getting late at ten o'clock,
Rock is dead they say,
Long live rock.
Long live rock, I need it every night,
Long live rock, come on and join the line,
Long live rock, be it dead or alive.
People walk in sideways pretending that they're leaving,
We put on our makeup and work out all the lead-ins,
Jack is in the alley selling tickets made in Hong Kong,
Promoter's in the pay box wondering where the band's gone,
Back in the pub the governor stops the clock,
Rock is dead, they say,
Long live rock.
Long live rock, I need it every night,
Long live rock, come on and join the line,
Long live rock, be it dead or alive.
Landslide, rocks are falling,
Falling down 'round our very heads,
We tried but you were yawning,
Look again, rock is dead, rock is dead, rock is dead.
The place is really jumping to the high-watt amps,
'Til a 20-inch cymbal fell and cut the lamps,
In the blackout they dance right into the aisle,
And as the doors fly open even the promoter smiles,
Someone takes his pants off and the rafters knock,
Rock is dead, they say,
Long live rock, long live rock, long live rock.
Long live rock, long live rock, long live rock,
Long live rock, long live rock, long live rock.
Long live rock, I need it every night,
Long live rock, come on and join the line,
Long live rock, be it dead or alive.
song performed by by Who
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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How Are You Death?
on a lonely night like this
on a lonely night like this
i envy the stars
i miss the moon and
the cool shadows of trees
on a lonely night like this
in the desert of my
dryness, i long for the rain
and the fog and the mist
on a lonely night like this
i begin to think
about you:
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Night After Night
by Bob Dylan
Night after night you wander the streets of my mind.
Night after night don't know what you think you will find.
No place to go, nowhere to turn,
Everything around you seems to burn, burn, burn.
And there's never any mercy night after night.
Night after night
Night after night
Night after night some new plan to blow up the world.
Night after night another old man kissing some young girl.
You look for salvation, you find none.
Just another broken heart, another barrel of a gun,
Just another stick of dynamite night after night.
Night after night
Night after night
Night after night you drop dead in your bed,
Night after night another bottle finds a head.
Night after night I think about cutting you loose
But I just can't do it, what would be the use?
So I just keep a holding you tight night after night.
Night after night
Night after night
Night after night
Night after night
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dyes Cast
Each night
As he drops his head
To the deep dream
Of the dark bed,
A shape beckons him
Wellaway
From the starlight
And the dim day.
A mare
Black as a spade, calls
From the dark hill
As the wind falls,
The reeds mutter
The night is black
As he leaps blind
To the mare’s back.
Then like the roar
Of an ill wind
Or a black flame
From the devil’s kiln,
The mare speeds
To the night’s work
By the old mill
And the dark Kirk.
Shapes flutter
And leap alight
Before they sputter
And, out of sight
Disport and mutter
Of black arts
To see the mare
And the rider pass.
Hour on hour
He clings to scenes
Of dark images,
Wild dreams
And chance friends
From the dead past
In the grim haunts
Of dyes cast.
His face burns
And tears stream
In the long night
Of the dark dream,
He clings grim
To the mare’s back
For his soul’s sake
And a long lack.
The day brinks
At night’s mist;
‘There may be nothing
More than this, ’
The mare fades
From his wide eyes –
But the thoughts bide,
And the old lies.
‘There may be nothing
More than this! ’
And his mind seeks
The mare, the mist;
‘There may be nought
But the dead past,
And the dark haunts
Of dyes cast.’
27 December 1978
poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Storm
The clouds turned to gray
The air turned to cold
And I knew by that day
Some evil would unfold.
It arrived without a warning
Along with the pounding rain
And it was gone by the morning
As violently as it came.
But for that night I lived in terror
That night I lived in fright
With every sound I heard
With every flash of light.
Violently came the wind
Terrorizing with no form
Then came the thunder and lightning,
Arriving, was the storm.
Many trees I saw bent
Then God clapped his mighty hand
While many trees were refusing to fall,
But then, a tree didn't stand.
Rushing came the wind
Pounding came the rain
Crashing came the thunder
Quickly, came my pain.
Underneath my bed I hid
From the terror of the storm
And in pain and terror I cried
In horror and pain I moaned.
That night I lived in terror
That night I lived in fright
With every sound I heard
With every flash of light.
And the rain just kept falling
More tears I began to weep
For the wind just kept calling,
Then that night; I fell asleep.
Then morning she finally came
I awoke to the sound of peace and birds
The sound of thunder and rain was gone
Which had awoke my sleeping world.
Then outside towards the sky I stared,
To the clouds God he did call
I saw Gods hand moving the wind
Commanding the rain not to fall.
Then the sun began to shine
So on my knees I fell to pray
Then again, I began to cry
Thanking God; the storm had went away.
poem by Randy McClave
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Venus Stop The Train
Venus, stop the train
For the brakeman lost his place
Satellites were spinning and out of space
They televised her feelings while the light
The light struck terror
I kept my distance because she fell in love with everyone
Smoking grass and taking Christmas trees
She fell in love with me
I was polite to her
A soft sadness having much more than her
Loneliness
Her father warmed the benches
Vice president of southern branches
He reached out to her when her mother slept
He would never forget the light
The light, the light striking terror
I kept my distance because she fell in love with everyone
Smoking grass and taking Christmas trees
She fell in love with me
I was polite to her
A soft sadness having much more than her
Loneliness
Satellites spinning
Satellites spin
Well the light
The light, the light
The light, the light
The light strikes terror
The light strikes terror
I keep my distance because she falls in love with everyone
Smoking grass and taking Christmas trees
She falls in love with me
I'm polite to her
A soft sadness having much more than her
Ugliness
I keep my distance cause she falls in love with everyone
Smoking grass and taking Christmas trees
She falls in love with me
I'm polite to her
I reach my soft hand out to her
I've known her for a very, very long time
song performed by by Wilco
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Last to Leave
The guns were silent, and the silent hills
had bowed their grasses to a gentle breeze
I gazed upon the vales and on the rills,
And whispered, "What of these?' and "What of these?
These long forgotten dead with sunken graves,
Some crossless, with unwritten memories
Their only mourners are the moaning waves,
Their only minstrels are the singing trees
And thus I mused and sorrowed wistfully
I watched the place where they had scaled the height,
The height whereon they bled so bitterly
Throughout each day and through each blistered night
I sat there long, and listened - all things listened too
I heard the epics of a thousand trees,
A thousand waves I heard; and then I knew
The waves were very old, the trees were wise:
The dead would be remembered evermore-
The valiant dead that gazed upon the skies,
And slept in great battalions by the shore.
poem by Leon Gellert
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On A Lonely Night Like This
on a lonely night like this
i envy the stars
i miss the moon and
the cool shadows of trees
on a lonely night like this
in the desert of my
dryness, i long for the rain
and the fog and the mist
on a lonely night like this
i begin to think
about you:
how are you death?
poem by Suki Nakamura
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In Prison
I cried out for the pain of man,
I cried out for my bitter wrath
Against the hopeless life that ran
For ever in a circling path
From death to death since all began;
Till on a summer night
I lost my way in the pale starlight
And saw our planet, far and small,
Through endless depths of nothing fall
A lonely pin-prick spark of light,
Upon the wide, enfolding night,
With leagues on leagues of stars above it,
And powdered dust of stars below—
Dead things that neither hate nor love it
Not even their own loveliness can know,
Being but cosmic dust and dead.
And if some tears be shed,
Some evil God have power,
Some crown of sorrow sit
Upon a little world for a little hour—
Who shall remember? Who shall care for it?
poem by Clive Staples Lewis
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The Trees Are Down
and he cried with a loud voice: Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees - Revelation
They are cutting down the great plane-trees at the end of
the gardens.
For days there has been the grate of the saw, the swish of
the branches as they fall,
The crash of the trunks, the rustle of trodden leaves,
With the 'Whoops' and the 'Whoa', the loud common talk,
the loud common laughs of the men, above it all.
I remember one evening of a long past Spring
Turning in at a gate, getting out of a cart, and finding
a large dead rat in the mud of the drive.
I remember thinking: alive or dead, a rat was a
god-forsaken thing,
But at least, in May, that even a rat should be alive.
The week's work here is as good as done. There is just
one bough
On the roped bole, in the fine grey rain,
Green and high
And lonely against the sky.
(Down now! -)
And but for that,
If an old dead rat
Did once, for a moment, unmake the Spring, I might never
have thought of him again.
It is not for a moment the Spring is unmade to-day;
These were great trees, it was in them from root to stem:
When the men with the 'Whoops' and the 'Whoas' have carted
the whole of the whispering loveliness away
Half the Spring, for me, will have gone with them.
It is going now, and my heart has been struck with the
hearts of the planes;
Half my life it has beat with these, in the sun, in the rains,
In the March wind, the May breeze,
In the great gales that came over to them across the roofs from the great seas.
There was only a quiet rain when they were dying;
They must have heard the sparrows flying,
And the small creeping creatures in the earth where they were lying -
But I, all day, I heard an angel crying:
'Hurt not the trees.'
poem by Charlotte Mary Mew
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Song of the woods
For a time the birds
and the trees
and animals dwelt in me,
but then came man.
Axes and saws
started to chop and bite
and as trees fell,
there wasn’t a place
safe for animals to be.
Time swept past
and man’s machines
started to carve
right trough trees.
Trees fell faster
than any could grow
and the climate was altered
by man and his machines.
Lost was the air
that had risen from me
and the forest rain dwindled
and a scorching sun
started to batter me.
The world of old is lost
and most of the trees are gone
and clouds of pollution
blankets the world.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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