At Oxford
Bereave me not of Fancy's shadowy dreams,
Which won my heart, or when the gay career
Of life begun, or when at times a tear
Sat sad on memory's cheek--though loftier themes
Await the awakened mind to the high prize
Of wisdom, hardly earned with toil and pain,
Aspiring patient; yet on life's wide plain
Left fatherless, where many a wanderer sighs
Hourly, and oft our road is lone and long,
'Twere not a crime should we a while delay
Amid the sunny field; and happier they
Who, as they journey, woo the charm of song,
To cheer their way;--till they forget to weep,
And the tired sense is hushed, and sinks to sleep.
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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The Bluebell
A fine and subtle spirit dwells
In every little flower,
Each one its own sweet feeling breathes
With more or less of power.
There is a silent eloquence
In every wild bluebell
That fills my softened heart with bliss
That words could never tell.
Yet I recall not long ago
A bright and sunny day,
'Twas when I led a toilsome life
So many leagues away;
That day along a sunny road
All carelessly I strayed,
Between two banks where smiling flowers
Their varied hues displayed.
Before me rose a lofty hill,
Behind me lay the sea,
My heart was not so heavy then
As it was wont to be.
Less harassed than at other times
I saw the scene was fair,
And spoke and laughed to those around,
As if I knew no care.
But when I looked upon the bank
My wandering glances fell
Upon a little trembling flower,
A single sweet bluebell.
Whence came that rising in my throat,
That dimness in my eye?
Why did those burning drops distil -
Those bitter feelings rise?
O, that lone flower recalled to me
My happy childhood's hours
When bluebells seemed like fairy gifts
A prize among the flowers,
Those sunny days of merriment
When heart and soul were free,
And when I dwelt with kindred hearts
That loved and cared for me.
I had not then mid heartless crowds
To spend a thankless life
In seeking after others' weal
With anxious toil and strife.
'Sad wanderer, weep those blissful times
That never may return!'
The lovely floweret seemed to say,
And thus it made me mourn.
poem by Anne Brontë
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Idler's Song
I sit in the twilight dim
At the close of an idle day,
And I list to the soft sweet hymn,
That rises far away,
And dies on the evening air.
Oh, all day long,
They sing their song,
Who toil in the valley there.
But never a song sing I,
Sitting with folded hands,
The hours pass me by -
Dropping their golden sands -
And I list, from day to day,
To the 'tick, tick, tock'
Of the old brown clock,
Ticking my life away.
And I see the twilight fade,
And I see the night come on,
And then, in the gloom and shade,
I weep for the day that's gone -
Weep and wail in pain,
For the misspent day
That has flown away,
And will not come again.
Another morning beams,
And I forget the last,
And I sit in idle dreams
Till the day over - past.
Oh, the toiler's heart is glad!
When the day is gone
And the night comes on,
But mine is sore and sad.
For I dare not look behind!
No shining, golden sheaves
Can I ever hope to find:
Nothing but withered leaves.
Ah! dreams are very sweet!
But will not please
If only these
I lay at the Master's feet.
And what will the Master say
To dreams and nothing more?
Oh, idler, all the day!
Think, ere thy life is o'er!
And when the day grows late,
Oh, soul of sin!
Will He let you in,
There at the pearly gate?
Oh, idle heart, beware!
On, to the field of strife!
On, to the valley there!
And live a useful life!
Up, do not wait a day!
For the old brown clock,
With its 'tick, tick, tock, '
Is ticking your life away.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The journey of life
The journey of life begun
That fateful day I was born
My eyes opened up blissfully to the sun
My soul, heart and brain emerged as one
Behold my journey had begun!
This little child in time has grown
Yes! Time has flown, time has flown
A lot has been learnt on my very own
Life has been a mystifying journey
With every up and down
With tears and laughter
With hate and love
With stupidity and wisdom
With enemies and friends
But even in my journey of frustration
I have found a means of celebration
In my toilsome exploration to my fateful destination
Tick tock, the clock goes on
Minute by minute, then hourly
Month by month then yearly
Tick tock, and in my journey
I have searched, questioned and answered
Whilst walking painfully along many paths
Sometimes requesting protection
Seeking from above immunization
When hit by obstacles in locations
But I am still on this journey
Shaking hands with the sad and merry
My passion for life which was once raw
Is now confined within the Almighty’s law
For life's journey itself never ends
Once you have reached the end of each road
Uplifting off your entire cloggy load
Be it in a hot summer or a winter’s cold
Behold! A new journey will unfold
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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The Amulet
The gift I received so long ago, I wore for
protection wherever i'd go.
Inside was your picture. You were my beau.
So many years have passed by since then
and now to my memory it comes once again.
I wrapped it in tissue the day that you died
and put it away until my tears dried.
My life seemed as if I never could find
the reason for living, as though I were blind.
Why did you leave me? Where did you go?
The days of my life, they moved too slow.
As I grew older my mind went to sleep.
The tears, my love I couldn't even weep.
And then one day a flash in my mind
told me there was something I had to find.
A pendant, a charm or an amulet?
Oh let me remember. Don't let me forget.
I searched and searched all over my rooms.
So much time had gone by, so many moons.
My closets, my drawers, I emptied them out.
Even the Bible I'd almost thrown out.
And then as I picked up the coat that I'd worn
to your funeral my dear that left me forlorn.
The memory of that, how could I forget?
Inside its pocket was my amulet.
I opened it slowly to see once again.
The memory of it all came back and then
before it could fade and my memory depart,
I clasped it on tightly right over my heart.
Now you'll protect me until I'm with you.
I hold it. I treasure it. That's what I do.
The feel of it now as I hold it in hand
gives me peace I need to make my mind
understamd.
-Dedicated to all Alzheimer Patients
poem by Edwina Reizer
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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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Life Is Like A Pathway
Life is like a pathway,
as you walk down the road
of life,
you will see many sorrows,
and many joys will come.
Life will pass swiftly by,
youth will someday seem
as nothing but a dream.
Life as days go by,
down this road you journey
will be just a memory in your mind.
Life is like a pathway
as you walk down the road
of life.
Your now at journey's end
looking back you wonder
and ponder of chances
you had.
Unless they have covered you
with dirt, there's still hope
to fulfill your dreams
down this pathway of life.
Verses, On The Death Of The Same Lady
LIKE a poor ghost the night I seek;
ts hollow winds repeat my sighs;
The cold dews mingle on my cheek
With tears that wander from mine eyes.
The thorns that still my couch molest,
Have robb'd these heavy eyes of sleep;
But though deprived of tranquil rest,
I here at last am free to weep.
Twelve times the moon, that rises red
O'er yon tall wood of shadowy pine,
Has fill'd her orb, since low was laid
My Harriet! that sweet form of thine!
While each sad month, as slow it pass'd,
Brought some new sorrow to deplore;
Some grief more poignant than the last,
But thou canst calm those griefs no more.
No more thy friendship soothes to rest
This wearied spirit tempest-toss'd;
The cares that weigh upon my breast
Are doubly felt since thou art lost.
Bright visions of ideal grace
That the young poet's dreams inflame,
Were not more lovely than thy face;
Were not more perfect than thy frame.
Wit, that no sufferings could impair,
Was thine, and thine those mental powers
Of force to chase the fiends that tear
From Fancy's hands her budding flowers.
O'er what, my angel friend, thou wert,
Dejected Memory loves to mourn;
Regretting still that tender heart,
Now withering in a distant urn.
But ere that wood of shadowy pine
Twelve times shall yon full orb behold,
This sickening heart, that bleeds for thine,
My Harriet!—may like thine be cold!
poem by Charlotte Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rock Me To Sleep, Mother
BACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for to-night!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,—
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,—
Take them, and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,—
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between:
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures,—
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song:
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,—rock me to sleep!
poem by Elizabeth Chase Allen
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Sleep of Dreams
Travelled road ~ rough and worn
I've walked with ease on many morn
Down your path of known delights
I've trodden through on many nights
To sleep a dreamless sleep
My footsteps echo not within
Within the paths where I have been
Oh, how I crave my soul's respite
To dream of life within this night
To sleep a sleep of dreams
Oh, travelled road ~ you're all I've known
But fever deep inside has grown
To walk the walk that others might
And realize a dream tonight
To sleep a sleep of dreams
This trodden path is worn and long
Each day does bring a seasoned song
That's sung till light has turned to night
And dulls the life with no delight
To sleep a dreamless sleep
I see a field of emerald green
No foot has passed ~ nor ever been
Down unseen path toward dawning light
I'll stay until the sweetest night
To sleep my sleep of dreams....
poem by Hazelmarie Elliott
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Who Will It Be
Who will take care of you when you get older
When you are walking down life’s road
Who will be there, with love and also care
When you, yourself are old.
Who will hold your hand and walk with you
When you are walking down life’s road
Who will be at your side, to be your guide
Who, but only you will know.
Who will carry you if you become to tired to walk
When you are walking down life’s road
Who will carry your weight, and wont hesitate
Who could be that proud and bold.
Who will stay at your side and will not leave you
When you are walking down life’s road
Who will wipe away your tear, and soothe your fear
Who will comfort your mind and soul.
Who will be there with you till the very end
When you are walking down life’s road
When you see the mistakes, that you did make
When your life unto you will unfold.
Who will be there to tell you goodbye
When your journey ends on life’s road
When you take those steps, with sadness and regret
Who will be the one with love to show.
poem by Randy McClave
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Homecoming Of A Wanderer (To Bhupen Hazarika)
He returned home through the same village roads,
Some morning declaring his fight against time and its tides,
through which he had gone.
Declaring miles and miles of road shorter than his dreams through which he had gone..
Declaring himself anonymous and wanderer and leaving promises of returning winner.
through which he had gone,,,
He returned.
On his return, the village road saw the same villager and he returned on the same wheels of his dreams
And those dreams were still full of life.
On his return but he was no longer an anonymous, he earned a name which could travel boundaries of land, river, ocean and time as well..
And when he returned he was no longer a wanderer for everywhere he went he left a mark of the river of his village where he belonged and now he owned a home in thousands heart
On his return he was no longer a wanderer
He returned through the same village roads
but not without gifts of eternity..
gifts from the zenith of human limits,,
gifts of pride and honour,,
gifts of travelling the roads of life,,
larger than travelled by any one ever,,,
he returned for he had left with promises of returning to his mother.
For sunset is nowhere more peaceful than the laps of her..
Dedicated to the wanderer,
Verses IV
On the Death of the same Lady, written in Sept. 1794.
LIKE a poor ghost the night I seek;
Its hollow winds repeat my sighs;
The cold dews mingle on my cheek
With tears that wander from mine eyes.
The thorns that still my couch molest,
Have robb'd these heavy eyes of sleep;
But though deprived of tranquil rest,
I here at last am free to weep.
Twelve times the moon, that rises red
O'er yon tall wood of shadowy pine,
Has fill'd her orb, since low was laid
My Harriet! that sweet form of thine!
While each sad month, as slow it pass'd,
Brought some new sorrow to deplore;
Some grief more poignant than the last,
But thou canst calm those griefs no more.
No more thy friendship soothes to rest
This wearied spirit tempest-toss'd;
The cares that weigh upon my breast
Are doubly felt since thou art lost.
Bright visions of ideal grace
That the young poet's dreams inflame,
Were not more lovely than thy face;
Were not more perfect than thy frame.
Wit, that no sufferings could impair,
Was thine, and thine those mental powers
Of force to chase the fiends that tear
From Fancy's hands her budding flowers.
O'er what, my angel friend, thou wert,
Dejected Memory loves to mourn;
Regretting still that tender heart,
Now withering in a distant urn.
But ere that wood of shadowy pine
Twelve times shall yon full orb behold,
This sickening heart, that bleeds for thine,
My Harriet!--may like thine be cold!
poem by Charlotte Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Song of Warriors and Saints
Sing me a song
That could lull me to sleep
And make me dream
Of my dream before I weep...
For in my sleep
I may see again
Visions I cannot remember
At dawn when I was awake.
And when my skin is seared
By the scorching heat
Of day, my sweet dreams
And the song can heal the pain.
Sing to me the song
Of a courageous warrior
In the field of battle
That leads to honor and the grave...
But in death, the warrior sees
The struggle to fight
For freedom and equality
Is his poem of elegy...
And in his wake,
The living sing a new song
And to his funeral they march
With a jaunty heart!
Sing to me the song
Of Solomon or Socrates -
The right way - or the road
To perdition and to shame!
Or the songs of angels
That lift my ailing spirit-
For the good and the truth,
In my heart, I always seek...
And with a melodious cry
My world is free of lies
And I live the life
I longed for before I die...
For the song in my dream
Is the song of all songs-
The song of warriors and saints!
poem by Jane Quijano
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Happier Times
My heart is in search for happier times -
Longer roads; higher mountains must I climb.
Atop the highest mountain, a vision do I see;
The distance I need to travel is inside of me.
To find the length of your road or the height of your climb,
Look inside; unleash freedom hidden in your mind.
Happier times await those not afraid to look....
Inside yourself.....reveals your heart (to God) as an open book.
This book is written as you travel the road of life,
Search your heart, pen your papers as with a surgens knife.
Remove the hate, as you carve your daily plan,
Begin with love, let it show to help your fellow man!
poem by Keith Foley
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The Sleep Of Spring
O for that sweet, untroubled rest
That poets oft have sung!--
The babe upon its mother's breast,
The bird upon its young,
The heart asleep without a pain--
When shall I know that sleep again?
When shall I be as I have been
Upon my mother's breast
Sweet Nature's garb of verdant green
To woo to perfect rest--
Love in the meadow, field, and glen,
And in my native wilds again?
The sheep within the fallow field,
The herd upon the green,
The larks that in the thistle shield,
And pipe from morn to e'en--
O for the pasture, fields, and fen!
When shall I see such rest again?
I love the weeds along the fen,
More sweet than garden flowers,
For freedom haunts the humble glen
That blest my happiest hours.
Here prison injures health and me:
I love sweet freedom and the free.
The crows upon the swelling hills,
The cows upon the lea,
Sheep feeding by the pasture rills,
Are ever dear to me,
Because sweet freedom is their mate,
While I am lone and desolate.
I loved the winds when I was young,
When life was dear to me;
I loved the song which Nature sung,
Endearing liberty;
I loved the wood, the vale, the stream,
For there my boyhood used to dream.
There even toil itself was play;
Twas pleasure een to weep;
Twas joy to think of dreams by day,
The beautiful of sleep.
When shall I see the wood and plain,
And dream those happy dreams again?
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0012 Remembering and being reminded
‘Did you remember to tidy up that room of yours
this morning – or do you need reminding? …’
that gap between remembering and being reminded
pursues our childhood and right through our life
as if there are two compartments in our brain
joined by the snaky sliding metal walkway
between two railway carriages at top speed,
the air, the ground, our life, flashing by
how close they are, how far apart,
what parts them in the living heart?
as, how can I ever forget you, all the life
we lived together, every little movement
of your eyes, your body, yes, your mind,
your eyes on me, the day
you looked at me, then looked away…
yes, I remember you, in every little thing
- then on the crowded street, before
some fancy high-priced fashion store,
some woman passes, with a dash
of Worth’s ‘Je reviens’ – and like a flash
I’m some old heart, some long ago to now heart, reminded that
I get along without you very well,
of course I do… except when all the scents of you
become our song, and you are you…
and behind, the memory
of whom I like to live and be,
and the sharper, true, intense
reminder of my truer sense.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Journey Again
At times in our journey
We reach place with lot of greenery
Lovely place to stay for long
Good people to be with for life
But when seasons change
And wind changes its direction
We need to set out on our journey again
To a journey that never concludes
As I stand looking as far as I could see in the direction of road ahead
Series of events roll down my memory lane
And tears dropp from my eyes
And a question arises is it all worth the challenges ahead?
But in the end you need to win over your emotions
Win over your doubts
And continue the journey again
In the direction of Sun
As you pursue the journey again guarding against all odds
Putting all your learning in practice
Ensuring mistakes not repeated
Dreams are achieved
But you know that life has in store new lessons to teach you.
And new places to take you.
So loosen your belts; set your wings far & wide
And let the winds take you to places
poem by Vijay Sherigar
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The Skylark
The rolls and harrows lie at rest beside
The battered road; and spreading far and wide
Above the russet clods, the corn is seen
Sprouting its spiry points of tender green,
Where squats the hare, to terrors wide awake,
Like some brown clod the harrows failed to break.
Opening their golden caskets to the sun,
The buttercups make schoolboys eager run,
To see who shall be first to pluck the prize -
Up from their hurry, see, the skylark flies,
And o'er her half-formed nest, with happy wings
Winnows the air, till in the cloud she sings,
Then hangs a dust-spot in the sunny skies,
And drops, and drops, till in her nest she lies,
Which they unheeded passed - not dreaming then
That birds which flew so high would drop agen
To nests upon the ground, which anything
May come at to destroy. Had they the wing
Like such a bird, themselves would be too proud,
And build on nothing but a passing cloud!
As free from danger as the heavens are free
From pain and toil, there would they build and be,
And sail about the world to scenes unheard
Of and unseen - Oh, were they but a bird!
So think they, while they listen to its song,
And smile and fancy and so pass along;
While its low nest, moist with the dews of morn,
Lies safely, with the leveret, in the corn.
poem by John Clare
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Thirty Eight Years...time really got wings!
Braving through the ocean of emotions...
Life's journey....38 years whizzed by..
Time has wings and it really did fly..
Twas a long journey, life's emotional battle and managed to survive
When from heaven came in two angels to my dreams to revive...
So much love, joy, laughter, tears that each dawning day met.
Made the uncertainty the confusion so easy rapidly to forget..
Unmoved by the passing expected storms with many a weep..
Helped shape my life to daringly climb the mountains so steep..
then came another sweet angelic two with the blessing from above..
It filled my heart with the sweetest fragrance of eternal love..
Sharing individually, collectively days, a many that were not a song
It so true.. almost a half a century and we manage to trudge along..
through the years a journey that keeps still a sailing in the same majestic fleet
till the angels call and hopefully in the land of no return more happiness we meet!
Were you that 19 year old in dark glasses, the drummer that came so long long ago
I was ust seventeen and half that photo of you in my heart lives on forever more....tnx
poem by Shirani Ibrahim
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Not Deterred By Your Point Of View
It is not my purpose in life,
To advise you on 'your' direction.
Or suggest which path to take,
On your journey.
Nor from me will there be recommendations.
If it should upset you,
That my vision remains focused...
And not deterred by your point of view,
Keep this in mind...
You are not my destination.
However...
It does appear that you are an obstacle,
That wishes to block my mission...
With a stirring up of my feelings of guilt,
With a delay of an empathy you await to be given.
You've done a good job.
All is not lost.
I passed a few procrastinators,
Along on my journey.
Be patient.
Someone will eventually buy your nonsense.
As for me...
Your routine is too familiar.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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