En.Citatepedia^®.ro

When The Wind Storms By With A Shout

When the wind storms by with a shout, and the stern sea-caves
Rejoice in the tramp and the roar of onsetting waves,
Then, then, it comes home to the heart that the top of life
Is the passion that burns the blood in the act of strife -
Till you pity the dead down there in their quiet graves.

But to drowse with the fen behind and the fog before,
When the rain-rot spreads and a tame sea mumbles the shore,
Not to adventure, none to fight, no right and no wrong,
Sons of the Sword heart-sick for a stave of your sire's old song -
O, you envy the blessed death that can live no more!

poem by William Ernest Henley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Song Of The Soldier-Born

Give me the scorn of the stars and a peak defiant;
Wail of the pines and a wind with the shout of a giant;
Night and a trail unknown and a heart reliant.

Give me to live and love in the old, bold fashion;
A soldier's billet at night and a soldier's ration;
A heart that leaps to the fight with a soldier's passion.

For I hold as a simple faith there's no denying:
The trade of a soldier's the only trade worth plying;
The death of a soldier's the only death worth dying.

So let me go and leave your safety behind me;
Go to the spaces of hazard where nothing shall bind me;
Go till the word is War -- and then you will find me.

Then you will call me and claim me because you will need me;
Cheer me and gird me and into the battle-wrath speed me. . . .
And when it's over, spurn me and no longer heed me.

For guile and a purse gold-greased are the arms you carry;
With deeds of paper you fight and with pens you parry;
You call on the hounds of the law your foes to harry.

You with your "Art for its own sake", posing and prinking;
You with your "Live and be merry", eating and drinking;
You with your "Peace at all hazard", from bright blood shrinking.

Fools! I will tell you now: though the red rain patters,
And a million of men go down, it's little it matters. . . .
There's the Flag upflung to the stars, though it streams in tatters.

There's a glory gold never can buy to yearn and to cry for;
There's a hope that's as old as the sky to suffer and sigh for;
There's a faith that out-dazzles the sun to martyr and die for.

Ah no! it's my dream that War will never be ended;
That men will perish like men, and valour be splendid;
That the Flag by the sword will be served, and honour defended.

That the tale of my fights will never be ancient story;
That though my eye may be dim and my beard be hoary,
I'll die as a soldier dies on the Field of Glory.

So give me a strong right arm for a wrong's swift righting;
Stave of a song on my lips as my sword is smiting;
Death in my boots may-be, but fighting, fighting.

poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dirt

Washed up on shore...
Washed up on shore...
Id like to live beneath the dirt
A tiny space to move and breathe is all that I would ever need
I want to live beneath the dirt
Where Id be free from push and shove like all those swarming up above
Beneath your heals Ill spend my time
Shout your name into the wind
Ill wiggle in the earth and dew
Shout your name into the wind
And somtimes I will think of you
Shout your name into the wind
And if you ever think of me
Kneel down and kiss the earth
And show me what this thought is worth
Ill never hear your voice again
Shout your name into the wind...
Shout your name into the wind...
Shout your name into the wind...
Shout your name into the wind...
Shout your name into the wind...
Shout yout name into the wind...
Shout your name into the wind...
Shout your name into the wind...

song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Too Long, O Spirit Of Storm

Too long, O Spirit of Storm,
Thy lightning sleeps in its sheath!
I am sick to the soul of yon pallid sky,
And the moveless sea beneath.

Come down in thy strength on the deep!
Worse dangers there are in life,
When the waves are still, and the skies look fair,
Than in their wildest strife.

A friend I knew, whose days
Were as calm as this sky overhead;
But one blue morn that was fairest of all,
The heart in his bosom fell dead.

And they thought him alive while he walked
The streets that he walked in youth --
Ah! little they guessed the seeming man
Was a soulless corpse in sooth.

Come down in thy strength, O Storm!
And lash the deep till it raves!
I am sick to the soul of that quiet sea,
Which hides ten thousand graves.

poem by Henry Timrod
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Heart Burns and Melts

My heart burns and melts with a pain and sickness

unlike this world has seen

for the tears and cries and pain and hurt of loved ones

my heart burns and melts with the ugliness which paints this world

a gloomy gray for the greed, violence, hate, and prejudice

which plaques our world

my heart burns and melts for the tired, hungry, weak, and poor

for the wars that slaughters billions and families

that are torn apart by lust and greed and jealously and hate

my heart burns and melts with a passion as strong as incense

as we live our lives in sin and vain without a care in the world

for the world we live in is cold as ice and the world is dark as pitch

for my heart burns and melts with a passion of pain and sadness

as my heart burns and melts like ice

for my heart burns and melts for the sick and needy of the world

for the broken hearts out there who need healing

for my heart burns and melts with a passion as strong as love itself

in hoping that one day the world will a happier place

enriched in golden bliss of happiness and peace on earth

for my heart burns with a passion for a dream

that's as sweet as love itself in all its beauty

poem by Brett Strotman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rules

be true to who you are
never quit without a fight
keep your heart out of sight
you'll be doing all right

stand proud
stand strong
don't let any body tell you
that your wrong
and if you do this
you'll sing a new song.

speak up
speak out
you'll need to shout
to be heard above
the roaring crowd.

love life
live life
it might cut like a knife
but sooner or later
you'll be above the strife.

believe in something
hats what you need to do
before you know it
you'll be as good as new.

and most importantly
live free
all of this is mixture you'll need
to live life perfectly

poem by Faith Franklin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Its Not A Song

Day turns to night, and I turn into bed.
Cant get to sleep; somethings in my head.
Pacing the floor, I try to force a rhyme.
Why do I fear this time?
Its not a song till it touches your heart.
Its not a song till it tears you apart.
After whats left of whats right and whats wrong,
Till it gets through to you,
Its not a song.
Now close your eyes; look into your hand.
What do you see?
Life is our song, to give and learn to take.
Time will not wait.
Oh, wont you please come dance,
While the songs still playing,
Wont be long till the silence falls.
Its not a song till it touches your heart. (its not a song.)
Its not a song till it tears you apart.
After whats left of whats right and whats wrong,
Till it gets through to you,
Its not a song.
Its not a song till it touches your heart. (its not a song.)
Its not a song till it tears you apart.
After whats left of whats right and whats wrong,
Till it gets through to you,
Its not a song.
Its not a song till it touches your heart. (its not a song.)
Its not a song till it tears you apart.
After whats left of whats right and whats wrong,
Till it gets through to you,
Its not a song.
Its not a song till it touches your heart. (its not a song.)
Its not a song till it tears you apart.
After whats left of whats right and whats wrong,
Till it gets through to you,
Its not a song.

song performed by by Amy Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sick of Being Sick

I’m sick of being rejected;
I’m sick of being emotionally neglected;
I’m sick of crying so many tears;
I’m sick of running away from my fears;
I’m sick of my childhood nightmares;
I’m sick of being told to do those stupid dares;
I’m sick of not having friends;
I’m sick of all these dead ends;
I’m sick of myself for what I’ve become;
I’m sick of feeling oh so numb;
I’m sick of watching myself drown;
I’m sick of my heart falling to the ground;
I’m sick of this life;
I’m sick of this everyday strife;
I’m sick of not having a dad;
I’m sick of getting mad;
I’m sick of my childhood past;
I’m sick of being harassed;
I’m sick of the dread;
I’m sick of wanting to be dead;
I’m sick of being the one who’s always so strong;
I’m sick of being somebody that doesn’t belong! !

poem by Shelby Brockway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Returning From A Mountain Retreat And Finding You Not There

The old valley at Machayeng! So
Full of the bones of the warriors
Of our forefathers who in death
Trouble not the living.I wish people
Would respect the dead and it's wrong
To turn the graves of the dead into
Places of worship for the living
My friend! I challenge you to visit
The caves at Meqheleng! They are majestic!
The rock formations are intricate man!
I never in my life thought that nature
Could be so soothing to the soul
And it's sad and I am back in the sad
House.And I thought it was a sad empty
Threat you were making.And it has happened
And you have gone.And three sad years have
Passed and I have even forgotten in my
Sadness what it's like to make love
To a woman.But sad seasons come to pass
And sad men too pass away.And they live
Their sorrows behind for their sons
To inherit.No man in his right mind must
Tell his son to have male children
Better to have a daughter and have less
Troubles.I know my own sons each one of
The three of them died a violent death

poem by Ngaka Motaung
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Seas

Seas are lining our lungs with oil,
That sought for hearing and roar,
That vastly deplored the veins of blood,
Of a human sailor,
Of a friendly man or woman of the winds.

Throw him off the edge of death,
Find him swimming to shore,
As a righteous man stoops to pray,
As a woman combs her hair all her life.

Waves upon waves meet the soldier,
A man as quiet as danger,
One of them who live amongst anger,
And they are in jeopardy of silence.

poem by Naveed Akram
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The Blind Rower

And since he rowed his father home,
His hand has never touched an oar.
All day he wanders on the shore,
And hearkens to the swishing foam.
Though blind from birth, he still could row
As well as any lad with sight;
And knew strange things that none may know
Save those who live without the light.

When they put out that Summer eve
To sink the lobster-pots at sea,
The sun was crimson in the sky;
And not a breath was in the sky;
The brooding, thunder-laden sky,
That, heavily and wearily,
Weighed down upon the waveless sea
That scarcely seamed to heave.

The pots were safely sunk; and then
The father gave the word for home:
He took the tiller in his hand,
And, in hi s heart already home,
He brought her nose round towards the land,
To steer her straight for home.

He never spoke,
Nor stirred again:
A sudden stroke,
And he lay dead,
With staring eyes, and lips off lead.

The son rowed on, and nothing feared:
And sometimes, merrily,
He lifted up his voice, and sang,
Both high and low,
And loud and sweet:
For he was ever gay at sea,
And ever glad to row,
And rowed as only blind men row:
And little did the blind lad know
That death was at his feet:
For still he thought his father steered;
Nor knew that he was all alone
With death upon the open sea.
So merrily, he rowed, and sang:
And, strangely on the silence rang
That lonely melody,
As, through the livid, brooding gloam,
By rock and reef, he rowed for home--
The blind man rowed the dead man home.

But, as they neared the shore,
He rested on his oar:
And, wondering that his father kept
So very quiet in the stern,
He laughed, and asked him if he slept;
And vowed he heard him snore just now.
Though, when his father spoke no word,
A sudden fear upon him came:
And, crying on his father's name,
With flinching heart, he heard
The water lapping on the shore;
And all his blood ran cold, to feel
The shingle grate beneath the keel:
And stretching over towards the stern,
His knuckle touched the dead man's brow.

But help was near at hand;
And safe he came to land:
Though none has ever known
How he rowed in, alone,
And never touched a reef.
Some say they saw the dead man steer--
The dead man steer the blind man home--
Though, when they found him dead,
His hand was cold as lead.

So, ever restless, to and fro,
In every sort of weather,
The blind lad wanders on the shore,
And hearkens to the foam.
His hand has never touched an oar,
Since they came home together--
The blind, who rowed his father home--
The dear, who steered his blind son home.

poem by Wilfred Wilson Gibson
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A Light In The Window

Rain and wind and candlelight
And let us pray a prayer to-night:
For every soul, since life is brief,
Little of trouble and less of grief.
And set a light at the windowpane,
To guide Love home through the night and rain.
Rain and wind and candlelight
And what shall we pray again to-night?
For every life, whose way is dim,
The grace of God and trust in Him.
A word, a song, till the tears be dried,
And Faith and Hope sit down beside.
Rain and wind and candlelight
And one last prayer to pray to-night:
For every heart in the dark and rain
To know its prayer is not in vain:
A door flung wide, and a face aglow
Love come back from the Long-Ago.
Then let the rain and the wind without
Threaten their worst and rave and shout:
For who will care, though the night is black
Love to his own has wandered back.
Has wandered back through the rain and night,
Led home again by her candle's light.

poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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Fire of Freedom

Charcoal fire upon the shore recalls
that fire behind closed door, of love
betrayed; the fire of bitter courtyard,
preyed into heart that wished so much
to love, but could not find a way, to shove
fear out, and claim the right, to stand secure
and not demure, to sad and threatening taunts.

Charcoal fire upon the shore, that opens
now a brand new door, for love to capture
heart, and re-found life, to break the mold,
that captive hold, that cuts like knife through
all desire, to be what once we were, when we
knew not the One whose love our love reclaims,
who stands now free, of all death’s chains.

O blessed fire of Easter joy that burns
into the night of darkness, with new and
wondrous light, that warms the damp and
dreary path of sadness, bringing gladness and
new sight. For even though we sometimes doubt,
we know that life has conquered death in victory
shout, that burns the earth with fire of new life.

poem by Midifo Yearns
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lazarus Heart

He looked beneath his shirt today
There was a wound in his flesh so deep and wide
From the wound a lovely flower grew
From somewhere deep inside
He turned around to face his mother
To show her the wound in his breast that burned like a brand
But the sword that cut him open
Was the sword in his mothers hand
Every day another miracle
Only death will tear us apart
To sacrifice a life for yours
Id be the blood of the lazarus heart
The blood of the lazarus heart
Though the sword was his protection
The wound itself would give him power
The power to remake himself at the time of his darkest hour
She said the wound would give him courage and pain
The kind of pain that you cant hide
From the wound a lovely flower grew
From somewhere deep inside
Every day another miracle
Only death will keep us apart
To sacrifice a life for yours
Id be the blood of the lazarus heart
The blood of the lazarus heart
Birds on the roof of my mothers house
Ive no stones that chase them away
Birds on the roof of my mothers house
Will sit on my roof some day
They fly at the window, they fly at the door
Where does she get the strength to fight them anymore
She counts all her children as a shield against the pain
Lifts her eyes to the sky like a flower in the rain
Every day another miracle
Only death will keep us apart
To sacrifice a life for yours
Id be the blood of the lazarus heart
The blood of the lazarus heart

song performed by by Sting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ballad of Joe and Satchong

There's a lady from the orient sea
Such winsome lady and lovely
With her voice so sweet to hear
Melodious within the wind zephyr

A sweet rhythmic sound like a song
A pleasing tune of such song
That enchanted this fellow
And made his heart glow

Ah - lovely voice, said Joe
That encourage him to go
Or search for that voice
That makes his heart rejoice

He followed the gentle breeze
Across Atlantic and Pacific seas
As the ocean waves and rolls
He goes on with the gentle breeze with goals

In the air is the song for Joe
That makes his heart glow
And search that voice
That makes his soul rejoice

So within the breeze is the song
Said Joe, Oh what a lovely song
And so melodious voice
That makes my heart rejoice

He continue to follow gentle breeze
Across Atlantic and Pacific seas
There in the orient sea he found that such song
is from the lovely lady named Satchong

With the little winged Cherubim
Coveted them and their love woven
Their love are like in the air
Life like the gentle wind zephyr

'til now their love so sweet like a song
With this couple Joe and Satchong
So blessed with bright lifetime
So solid maybe until the end of time

poem by Ency Bearis
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On the other shore of my song Original by Rabindranath Tagore

You are standing on the other shore of my song
The waves of my music touch your fair and bare feet
But I can not touch you and I can guess what’s wrong!

The wind is pretty strong somehow
Don’t be late; please sail your boat now
Anchor your boat in my heart right where you belong.
You are standing on the other shore of my song
The waves of my music touch your fair and bare feet
But I can not touch you and I can guess what’s wrong!

The game of song that I play with you
It makes me sad and it’s nothing new!

When will you take my flute of love
And play it to charm me enough
In the darkness full of happiness all night long?
You are standing on the other shore of my song
The waves of my music touch your fair and bare feet
But I can not touch you and I can guess what’s wrong!

poem by Asif Andalib
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Psalm XXXV: Now Plead My Cause, Almighty God

Now plead my cause, Almighty God,
With all the sons of strife;
And fight against the men of blood,
Who fight against my life.

Draw out thy spear and stop their way,
Lift thine avenging rod;
But to my soul in mercv say,
"I am thy Savior God!"

They plant their snares to catch my feet,
And nets of mischief spread;
Plunge the destroyers in the pit
That their own hands have made.

Let fogs and darkness hide their way,
And slipp'ry be their ground;
Thy wrath shall make their lives a prey,
And all their rage confound.

They fly like chaff before the wind,
Before thine angry breath;
The angel of the Lord behind
Pursues them down to death.

They love the road that leads to hell;
Then let the rebels die,
Whose malice is implacable
Against the Lord on high.

But if thou hast a chosen few
Amongst that impious race,
Divide them from the bloody crew,
By thy surprising grace.

Then will I raise my tuneful voice,
To make thy wonders known;
In their salvation I'll rejoice,
And bless thee for my own.

Behold the love, the gen'rous love,
That holy David shows;
Hark, how his sounding bowels move
To his afflicted foes !

When they are sick his soul complains,
And seems to feel the smart;
The spirit of the gospel reigns,
And melts his pious heart.

How did his flowing tears condole
As for a brother dead !
And fasting mortified his soul,
While for their life he prayed.

They groaned, and cursed him on their bed,
Yet still he pleads and mourns;
And double blessings on his head
The righteous God returns,

Glorious type of heav'nly grace !
Thus Christ the Lord appears;
While sinners curse, the Savior prays,
And pities them with tears.

He, the true David, Isr'el's King,
Blessed and beloved of God,
To save us rebels, dead in sin,
Paid his own dearest blood.

poem by Isaac Watts
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Okinawa

Armada sails
Island after island
Battalions land
Ominous silence
Jungles become fierce roaring lions
Machine gun nests
Relentless enemy with no surrender
Casualties, the maimed and dying
Rain, mud, the dead unburied
Torture, dehumanization, madness
Corpses defiled
Attack after attack
Night becomes a morbid nightmare
Shadows, ghosts, artillery fire
The rocks splattered with blood
Strategic hills, hidden caves
Caves where fear shivers
They fight and wait for the emperor
Huddled in the cold darkness
Foreign voice echoes off the rocks
Warned to come out for the last time
Some sealed in their bleak darkness
Exploded into kingdom come
Finally the flag waves in sober winds
Thousands and thousands in early graves
Count your dead
Purple hearts
Remember these brave children of war
They no longer hear the guns and roar
They lay silent with honor
Okinawa falls

poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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A Forsaken Garden

IN a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland,
At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee,
Walled round with rocks as an inland island,
The ghost of a garden fronts the sea.
A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses
The steep square slope of the blossomless bed
Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses
Now lie dead.

The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken,
To the low last edge of the long lone land.
If a step should sound or a word be spoken,
Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's hand?
So long have the grey bare walks lain guestless,
Through branches and briars if a man make way,
He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, restless
Night and day.

The dense hard passage is blind and stifled
That crawls by a track none turn to climb
To the strait waste place that the years have rifled
Of all but the thorns that are touched not of time.
The thorns he spares when the rose is taken;
The rocks are left when he wastes the plain.
The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken,
These remain.

Not a flower to be pressed of the foot that falls not;
As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry;
From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not,
Could she call, there were never a rose to reply.
Over the meadows that blossom and wither
Rings but the note of a sea-bird's song;
Only the sun and the rain come hither
All year long.

The sun burns sere and the rain dishevels
One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath.
Only the wind here hovers and revels
In a round where life seems barren as death.
Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping,
Haply, of lovers none ever will know,
Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping
Years ago.

Heart handfast in heart as they stood, "Look thither,"
Did he whisper? "look forth from the flowers to the sea;
For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither,
And men that love lightly may die---but we?"
And the same wind sang and the same waves whitened,
And or ever the garden's last petals were shed,
In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had lightened,
Love was dead.

Or they loved their life through, and then went whither?
And were one to the endÑbut what end who knows?
Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither,
As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose.
Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them ?
What love was ever as deep as a grave ?
They are loveless now as the grass above them
Or the wave.

All are at one now, roses and lovers,
Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea.
Not a breath of the time that has been hovers
In the air now soft with a summer to be.
Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafter
Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep,
When as they that are free now of weeping and laughter
We shall sleep.

Here death may deal not again for ever;
Here change may come not till all change end.
From the graves they have made they shall rise up never,
Who have left nought living to ravage and rend.
Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing,
While the sun and the rain live, these shall be;
Till a last wind's breath upon all these blowing
Roll the sea.

Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble,
Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink,
Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble
The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink,
Here now in his triumph where all things falter,
Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread,
As a god self-slain on his own strange altar,
Death lies dead.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Southampton Dock

They disembarked in 45
And no one spoke and no one smiled
There were too many spaces in the line
Gathered at the cenotaph
All agreed with hand on heart
To sheath the sacrificial knifes
But now
She stands upon southampton dock
With her handkerchief
And her summer frock clings
To her wet body in the rain
In quiet desperation knuckles
White upon the slippery reins
She bravely waves the boys goodbye again
And still the dark stain spreads between
His shoulder blades
A mute reminder of the poppy fields and graves
And when the fight was over
We spent what they had made
But in the bottom of our hearts
We felt the final cut

song performed by by Pink Floyd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Meetings

As up and down I fare by road and street
The mothers of our men-at-arms I meet
Who die for mine and me,
That we go safe and free,
Sit in the sun, sleep soft and find life sweet.

I have two sons too young to fight, too young,
God grant if my hour comes I may be strong,
And caught in such a strait
May praise God and be great,
Giving my sons to save some woman from wrong!
Oh, mothers of dead heroes, ye I know,
My heart sends you a greeting, soft and low;
Blessed are ye whose sons
Amid the ransomed ones
Throng to the banners of Heaven as white as snow.

Somehow, by some secret and certain sign,
The mothers of the beloved I divine
Who died in my sons' place.
My heart kneels and gives grace.
Gives thanks for you, for you, proud sisters of mine!

poem by Katharine Tynan
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