En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Truly Great

My walls outside must have some flowers,
My walls within must have some books;
A house that's small; a garden large,
And in it leafy nooks.

A little gold that's sure each week;
That comes not from my living kind,
But from a dead man in his grave,
Who cannot change his mind.

A lovely wife, and gentle too;
Contented that no eyes but mine
Can see her many charms, nor voice
To call her beauty fine.

Where she would in that stone cage live,
A self-made prisoner, with me;
While many a wild bird sang around,
On gate, on bush, on tree.

And she sometimes to answer them,
In her far sweeter voice than all;
Till birds, that loved to look on leaves,
Will doat on a stone wall.

With this small house, this garden large,
This little gold, this lovely mate,
With health in body, peace in heart--
Show me a man more great.

poem by William Henry Davies
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The House Of Splendour

‘Tis Evanoe's,
A house not made with hands,
But out somewhere beyond the worldly ways
Her gold is spread, above, around, inwoven;
Strange ways and walls are fashioned out of it.

And I have seen my Lady in the sun,
Her hair was spread about, a sheaf of wings,
And red the sunlight was, behind it all.

And I have seen her there within her house,
With six great sapphires hung along the wall,
Low, panel-shaped, a-level with her knees,
All her robe was woven of pale gold.

There are there many rooms and all of gold,
Of woven walls deep patterned, of email,
Of beaten work; and through the claret stone,
Set to some weaving, comes the aureate light.

Here am I come perforce my love of her,
Behold mine adoration
Maketh me clear, and there are powers in this
Which, played on by the virtues of her soul,
Break down the four-square walls of standing time.

poem by Ezra Pound
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Rose Tree Of Winter

In the cold winds of Winter she stands thorny and bare
In Summer large beautiful red flowers she did wear
The Rose tree of Winter not a pretty sight
At a time of year with litle warmth in the sunlight,
When the birds in the sunlit gardens will nest and sing
She will wear her new leaves and rosebuds of the Spring
As a tree the rose tree does not grow very tall
Compared to most trees she does seem very small
But in her full bloom none as lovely as she
In her cloak of flowers she's a beautiful tree
But in Winter she stands there by the garden wall
Of the garden trees the most forlorn one of all
And though it may still be a few months from the Spring
The white backed magpie on the blackwood tree sing
But without her leaves and flowers prickly looking and bare
The rose tree looks drab in the cool morning air.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Wrong House

I went into a house, and it wasn't a house,
It has big steps and a great big hall;
But it hasn't got a garden,
A garden,
A garden,
It isn't like a house at all.

I went into a house, and it wasn't a house,
It has a big garden and great high wall;
But it hasn't got a may-tree,
A may-tree,
A may-tree,
It isn't like a house at all.

I went into a house, and it wasn't a house -
Slow white petals from the may-tree fall;
But it hasn't got a blackbird,
A blackbird,
A blackbird,
It isn't like a house at all.

I went into a house, and I thought it was a house,
I could hear from the may-tree the blackbird call…
But nobody listened to it,
Nobody
Liked it,
Nobody wanted it at all.

poem by Alan Alexander Milne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part IV: Vita Nova: LXXXV

THE SAME CONTINUED
These flowers shall be my offering, living flowers
Which here shall die with you in sacrifice,
Flowers from the empty fields which once were yours
And now are mine. No gold, nor myrrh, nor spice,
Nor any dead man's offering may suffice.
I love not flowers: but thus to deck a grave
Which has no need of things of greater price.
Life is the only tribute death would have.
--Ah, thou art dead. Mine is this fair domain
With all its living beauty and brave shows
Of lawn, and lake, and garden; mine the increase
Of the year's harvest, the slow growth of trees,
And that fair natural wealth we loved in vain,
Flowers, which shall never more adorn my house.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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When I Want To See Beauty

When I want to see beauty I need not travel far
Not even for a short drive in a car
Outside my window on flowering callistemon tree
A natural thing of beauty there to see.

The new holland honeyeater in his dark and gold
A bird of beauty lovely to behold
He chirrups loud amongst the leafy bowers
And take his fill of nectar from the flowers.

When I want beauty all I have to do
Is walk near my home down shady avenue
Where white backed magpie on the tall gum sing
In Nature beauty is a natural thing.

For beauty money I don't have to pay
Or purchase flight ticket to far away
At night I see it in the starry sky
A thing of beauty is a thing of joy.

And the finest of beauty you don't pay to see
Like a red rosella on a sunlit tree
In Nature's garden living wild and free
And you won't see any prettier than he.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Shut Out

The door was shut. I looked between
Its iron bars; and saw it lie,
My garden, mine, beneath the sky,
Pied with all flowers bedewed and green:

From bough to bough the song-birds crossed,
From flower to flower the moths and bees;
With all its nests and stately trees
It had been mine, and it was lost.

A shadowless spirit kept the gate,
Blank and unchanging like the grave.
I peering through said: 'Let me have
Some buds to cheer my outcast state.'

He answered not. 'Or give me, then,
But one small twig from shrub or tree;
And bid my home remember me
Until I come to it again.'

The spirit was silent; but he took
Mortar and stone to build a wall;
He left no loophole great or small
Through which my straining eyes might look:

So now I sit here quite alone
Blinded with tears; nor grieve for that,
For nought is left worth looking at
Since my delightful land is gone.

A violet bed is budding near,
Wherein a lark has made her nest:
And good they are, but not the best;
And dear they are, but not so dear.

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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In the Spirit of Rumi 32-The Garden

O pilgrim on the path of life,
you have travelled far;
now you have come to rest
and make yourself a home;
and plant a garden there.

You measured out the plot of land,
designed it with your love,
laid precious stones along its paths,
planted trees for shade,
beneath them, marbled seats; and
roses red as heart’s red blood, or
white as purity; scented as all beauty veiled;
among the roses, jasmine, iris, lily, honeysuckle;
and in the evening, night’s pale flowers that yield
all the scented charms of cooling dusk;
and in the centre, a fountain plashing,
ever different, ever the same,
to be the token of your resting soul..

now you build a wall around it,
stone by stone. Two things
I ask of you, O faithful one:

make an arched gate within the wall
that you may not make your neighbour envious;
where you may invite him to join you,
that neighbour who is yourself disguised..

and as you lay each stone
to guard your peace from fox and wolf,
remember - that a paradise with walls
is but a parable, a paradigm,
for that true paradise which knows no walls;
rest there, traveller.

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lovely One

Lovely one,
Just as on the cool stone
Of the spring, the water
Opens a wide flash of foam,
So is the smile of your face,
Lovely one.

Lovely one,
With delicate hands and slender feet
Like a silver pony,
Walking, flower of the world,
Thus I see you,
Lovely one.

Lovely one,
With a nest of copper entangled
On your head, a nest
The coloUr of dark honey
Where my heart burns and rests,
Lovely one.

Lovely one,
Your eyes are too big for your face,
Your eyes are too big for the earth.

There are countries, there are rivers,
In your eyes,
My country is your eyes,
I walk through them,
They light the world
Through which I walk,
Lovely one.

Lovely one,
Your breasts are like two loaves made
Of grainy earth and golden moon,
Lovely one.

Lovely one,
Your waist,
My arm shaped it like a river when
It flowed a thousand years through your sweet body,
Lovely one.

Lovely one,
There is nothing like your hips,
Perhaps earth has
In some hidden place
The curve and the fragrance of your body,
Perhaps in some place,
Lovely one.

Lovely one, my lovely one,
Your voice, your skin, your nails,
Lovely one, my lovely one,
Your being, your light, your shadow,
Lovely one,
All that is mine, lovely one,
All that is mine, my dear,
When you walk or rest,
When you sing or sleep,
When you suffer or dream,
Always,
When you are near or far,
Always,
You are mine, my lovely one,
Always.

poem by Pablo Neruda
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This Space Between the Gate, the Garden Lovely - Eternal Rounds of Determined Variations

.
...variations determined of rounds eternal -
lovely garden the gate
the between space
this...

All

this space between the gate and the garden lovely

within the hole of the ring in the breath flung in

the dirt's cool dank breath

the hand of the digger becomes the tree

shall hang

language surpasses itself breaks

upon its own weight like the empty shell of the beetle

little is the frame we live within the tiny world

the wave of the wind ripple in the mind and Mind

the barn side the vague window pane opening upon

the living the dead artifacts

All

All

is here everywhere in the ring in the hand in the dirt

and out the grave house underneath

thanks the air and pass the leaves

becomes the sign upon which all breathing things

upon its own weight like the empty shell of the beetle

walks upon Vast the space it partakes of making

turns to the dropp of rain the flaked paint of the

eternal scene of stones breathing becoming bread

All

All

the living the dead artifacts

the barn side the vague window pane opening upon

the wave of the wind ripple in the mind and Mind

little is the frame we live within the tiny world

shall hang language shall surpass itself break

the hand of the digger become the tree

the dirt's cool dank breath

within the hole of the ring in the breath flung in

this space between the gate and the garden lovely

All

All

eternal scene of stones breathing becoming bread

turns to the dropp of rain the flaked paint

walks upon Vast the space it partakes of making

upon its own weight the empty shell of the beetle

becomes the sign upon which all breathing things

thanks the air and pass the leaves

and out the grave house underneath

All

All

this space between the gate and the garden lovely

is here everywhere in the ring in the hand in the dirt

the living the dead artifacts

eternal scene of stones breathing becoming bread

eternal rounds of determined variations...

poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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1 Among 50

A few out of many,
But it was 1 among 50 as the muse wrote;
And like a lovely garden with the muse of love,
But the rain comes to water us all in peace.

Do exactly what you have in mind,
And do what is nice to respect my love;
But it was 1 among 50 as the muse wrote,
For the joy of this garden is like living in paradise!

Obey my voice and obey my love,
And like the lovely songs of the birds around;
For this garden is all that we have,
But it was 1 among 50 as the muse wrote!
And the true peace of the mind always comes with love.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Walls

Walls of stone and walls of brick,
Some walls thin and some walls thick,
Walls so high and walls so low,
Walls to hide and walls to show.

Walls quite short and walls quite tall,
Some walls, last well, some walls fall,
Walls for comfort, walls of hate,
Walls for security, walls ornate.

Some as a barricade, some to support,
Walls of wood and walls of iron wrought,
Walls as a barrier, walls to enclose,
Some are to sit on, some to lean and doze.

Walls we build ourselves, these aren't good,
Walls for privacy, walls that have stood,
So many years through weather foul or fine,
Walls, that are yours, walls that are mine.

Brick by brick they are built to last,
Whether built now or in the past,
They shelter us from so many things,
And shield us from whatever this life brings.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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My Garden

My beautiful garden is talking to me
from weeds to my Japanese Cherry tree.
The ivy has climbed over fencing and wall.
It looks so amazing just now, as it's Fall.

Such fusions of colour hearten my day
I'm all of a flutter to see the display.
Bird's nests survive in the eaves of the house
and I can see squirrels scamper about.

I'm so in awe of this time of year
such lovely profusions of leaves all appear,
making a carpet on my garden floor,
a comforting layer for feet to tread on.

So this is my haven, my garden, my home,
where nature imposes its grandeur.
And I am humbled to look out and view
as my eyes are dazzled by splendour.

poem by Ruth Walters
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Ballade Of True Wisdom

While others are asking for beauty or fame,
Or praying to know that for which they should pray,
Or courting Queen Venus, that affable dame,
Or chasing the Muses the weary and grey,
The sage has found out a more excellent way -
To Pan and to Pallas his incense he showers,
And his humble petition puts up day by day,
For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.

Inventors may bow to the God that is lame,
And crave from the fire on his stithy a ray;
Philosophers kneel to the God without name,
Like the people of Athens, agnostics are they;
The hunter a fawn to Diana will slay,
The maiden wild roses will wreathe for the Hours;
But the wise man will ask, ere libation he pay,
For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.

Oh! grant me a life without pleasure or blame
(As mortals count pleasure who rush through their day
With a speed to which that of the tempest is tame)!
O grant me a house by the beach of a bay,
Where the waves can be surly in winter, and play
With the sea-weed in summer, ye bountiful powers!
And I'd leave all the hurry, the noise, and the fray,
For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.

ENVOY.

Gods, grant or withhold it; your 'yea' and your 'nay'
Are immutable, heedless of outcry of ours:
But life IS worth living, and here we would stay
For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.

poem by Andrew Lang
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In some fields of grass under the hills (sestina)

This afternoon the peaks throw a big shade
with the black cliffs shining up on the hills,
while we lay together in the long grass,
I look in your eyes that are amber-green
while under my head there is a small stone
and you smile at me like the prettiest lady.

I had once known another charming lady;
that part of my life is now left in shade,
bad churchmen were casting stone upon stone,
while I had to flee from them to the hills
to pastures were everything is green
to find the Lord in divine fields of grass.

Under your head there is a crown of grass
and your mother is a gracious, kind lady,
around us everything is lovely green
while we are still resting in the cool shade,
we are softly chatting about life’s hills,
about walls of very hard granite stone.

Your eyes are much brighter than emerald stone
while all of your words are softer than grass,
reaching higher and beyond all the hills,
the high mountain which is dangerous lady,
while from our pain nothing gives any shade,
nowhere is a place of rest that is green.

Your summer dress is lovely, is bright green,
suddenly all our ails have turned to stone
I follow you further; see your small shade,
I am seen as one that woos any lady,
we walk past some flowers growing in grass,
climbing up higher into the foothills.

Bright streams are splashing down some of the hills,
with water transparent, sometimes cold and green,
love and lust burns like in a youthful lady
while I at that moment feel cold as stone,
we notice a deer feeding on lone grass
while our garments lie under a tree’s shade.

Far into the hills you want love till dusk’s shade,
where you peep like some green moss from the grass,
are tossing me with a stone like no lady.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Witch Stone

At Forres is a large round stone,
A relic of the days by gone;
For here there were two witches burned,
Underneath their ashes urned.

A man with veneration small
Broke stone and built it in his wall,
But the authorities of town
Made him full quickly pull them down.

Replace each piece, and it environ
With large bars of good Scottish iron ;
May fine old town thrive and adorn
The beauteous banks of the Findhorn.

poem by James McIntyre
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A hate, love syndrome

“Shut up, shut up, shut up and go away”
I threw the stone at crow to scare away
It was disturbing me with unpleasant voice
It was making me irritant with noise

I don’t know whether it was because of look
Appearance in early morning on hook
I couldn’t make out exact reason for dislike
Bird was on lovely earth flying like kite

Music leaves impact on blind and even on deaf
It is opening of new day like emergence of new leaf
Human being always loved beautiful birds
I sat in silence and peacefully heard

I was spell bound by the melodious songs
It stops person from doing anything wrong
It has blessings from the divine power
Always worshiped and found for an answer

I couldn’t distinguish what was wrong with black crow
It had all the freedom to live in environment and grow
How cuckoo could create spell bound magic?
Why crow failed to appeal with music?

It makes lot of difference when hear in bird's voice
What a melody in the ears in the morning devoid of noise?
Think of vigor and strength that it offers to ailing body
Health with music and stable mind is anybody's guess in body

Well both were meant to serve as good carriage
One with melody and another with clearance of garbage
One for fine health of individual and another for mass
There were different but with same important class

Only irritant was simply unpleasant voice
How to compare melody with noise?
I thought I must be rationale in approach
It was visibly seen in day light without any torch

We tend to bear one sided view
We sometimes offend person which not due
It is inherent weakness of fragile mind
Such situation you will never find

Generally we fail to hide our displeasure
It is not yardstick for anything to measure
I hate crow for no reason and am also not sure
There may not be any medicine for it to cure

We fail to recognize the contribution they made by them
They are the factor for our healthy state and real gem
Think of scattered garbage and bad odor in the street
How can music appeal to you when dirty things to meet?

Scavengers, messengers or apostle of anything you call
You must like them whether you see them on tree or wall
There are here to serve you for mental and body health
They are inseparable part of our life and real wealth

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Applegarth

There is a garden where the sun
reflects from rough cast whitewashed walls.
Close by the quiet river runs
here you can hear the soft bird calls.

The scents of lavender and sage,
which grow near to the lilac trees.
Compete with fields of blue borage
ich draw to them the questing bees.

The lawn of moorland turf is neat
and everywhere the flowers bloom.
The honey smell of meadowsweet
is mingling with the perfumed broom.

This garden is a sheltered spot.
Where old and tired from the fray
I sit and doze when it is hot
and ponder in my quiet way.

I think about the things I’ve seen
and well loved people I have known
The many places I have been
in travels ‘fore I was full grown.

My wandering feet have carried me
to distant lands of snow and ice.
Some lands without a single tree
and tropic isles like paradise.

I always yearned to go back home
but there was always more to see
When I was young I had to roam
across the world by land and sea.

My questing mind gave me no peace
hard lessons I was forced to learn.
Wisdom granted me release
a truth I found I had to earn.

The fire of youth burns low with age.
springy step turns to measured tread
I learnt my quest was a mirage
and came back to where I was bred

Although it’s changed it’s still the same.
I see it now through different eyes
and seek no more for fortunes fame.
I realise to my surprise

I need not have travelled at all.
As all the knowledge I’ve obtained
I could have gained within ths walls
of this small garden.Now maintained

by younger men in their full strength.
Who serve me with touching awe
As one who’s seen the breadth and length
Of the whole world.As he sought for

the secrets other lands could show.
Whose been to Canada and Rome.
Seen desert lands and fields of snow
But has returned at last to home.

A field stone house with roof of thatch,
a garden sheltered from the wind.
There was nowhere else could match
the dream he carried in his mind.

Of Applegarth, old Applegarth
a house that’s filled with memories
It’s been his family’s home and hearth
for nigh on seven hundred years.

There’s little left of the wide lands
This proud family used to own
but what there is Is my homeland.
belongs to me and me alone.

This quiet garden in the sun
the Rowan tree that provides shade.
I know my race is nearly run
and wonder if I made the grade.

Each morn I wake and greet the day.
Determined that I will enjoy
Whatever treats may come my way
As carefree as a little boy

The little boy I used to be
Before my wanderlust took hold
and drove me overland and sea.
I only learned as I grew old

That I could live contentedly
at Applegarth and only here.
Where I was always meant to be
a message I was slow to hear.

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Cuckoo

All birds are distinct and have special character
We may not find them usually in every sector
They have their own way to serve the mankind
Each one holds prominence and has specialists of its kind

Cuckoo is only one with melodious voice
We exclaim and appreciate without any choice
She can air lovely music in air when breeze is cool
Arrival of sun shine may alert even fool

When air is thick with silence and peace
Cuckoo spreads music with simple ease
It may erase any sadness of previous day
New pulse and thoughts with simple way

Pleasant voice is simple music
Generates thrill and creates magic
God may gift it to one in million
Music with beauty may be real union

Cuckoo is black but melody queen
Everybody may listen to and very keen
Pigeon may be called peace ambassador
Cuckoo too may be God’s messenger

I may pray and wish her daily appearance
Draw the inspiration with simple inference
Should we not shed our daily difference?
Cuckoo may serve as ready made reference

We may prefer more cuckoos to crow
Never we feel older, even if grow
Life may be steady with space very slow
With melodious voice face may shine and glow

How this music has come into being?
You get music if you blow in hollow ring
Nature has its own course of providing music
It has natural blessings to serve spell of magic

Flowers, waterfalls and river add to melody
Music to ears is passion for everybody
Lovely cuckoo does it again for mankind
Morning peace descends on earth and pleases mind

Music leaves impact on blind and deaf
It is opening of new kind such as leaf
Human being always loved beautiful bird
Set in silence and peacefully heard

We are spell bound by the melodious songs
It stops person from doing anything wrong
It has blessings from the divine power
Always worshiped and found an answer

It makes lot of difference when it is heard in bird’s voice
What a melody in the ears in the morning devoid of noise
Think of vigor and strength that it offers to ailing body
Health with music and stable mind is anybody’s guess in body

Music has in built wonders in itself
Even birds can do it without any help
If we can resume and get aligned to theme
It is only way open to reach to HIM

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Heart Of Gold

We are the future within our dome
A new generation, we live alone
Washed the words from the subway wall
We had to fight to survive
You still can have it all
So listen to our cry
With a mind of steel, but a heart of gold
The winds of change you can move the stone
By the hands of love you must free the soul
To live forever with a heart of gold
We are the future, we hold the key
The messengers are calling, wake up your race
All but man did turn to dust
Then we saw her fall
Cut her down by the sword of greed
So listen to our cry
With a mind of steel, but a heart of gold
The winds of change you can move the stone
By the hands of love you must free the soul
To live forever with a heart of gold
With a mind of steel, but a heart of gold
The winds of change you can move the stone
By the hands of love you must free the soul
To live forever with a heart of gold
You are the future, its up to you
You are the future, its up to you

song performed by by Asia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This House is no Longer a Home

As I walk down the lonely street
Knees get weak, can barely keep my feet
I see the fence, the gate, the porch
From where you gazed and lit my torch
I see the house, the room, the bed
Your voice still ringing in my head
You said you didn't love anymore
And you walked out the door
The walls were painted antique white
Semi-gloss to bring in the light
Pictures hung on every wall
With memories of us all
Now the fence is falling, the flowers dying
Tears fall through the cracks from all the crying
The gate is broken and no one can come in
It's a shame even the birds won't sing
But this house is no longher a home
You chose freedom, you chose to roam
This house is no longer a home
Like a beer without foam
A classic car without chrome
You chose to roam
Now this house is no longer a home
I recall that first night
We made love in the full moonlight
Tfhe air was filled with ecstasy
Our moans sang a symphony
Our bodies became one
As we ventured till the morning sun
But love doesn't live here anymore
I can still hear the slamming of the door
I can feel the vibration of every picture frame
As I stand here wondering who's to blame

poem by Alfred Ramos
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