En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Ah, Bleak And Barren Was The Moor

Ah! bleak and barren was the moor,
Ah! loud and piercing was the storm,
The cottage roof was shelter'd sure,
The cottage hearth was bright and warm—
An orphan-boy the lattice pass'd,
And, as he mark'd its cheerful glow,
Felt doubly keen the midnight blast,
And doubly cold the fallen snow.

They marked him as he onward press'd,
With fainting heart and weary limb;
Kind voices bade him turn and rest,
And gentle faces welcomed him.
The dawn is up—the guest is gone,
The cottage hearth is blazing still:
Heaven pity all poor wanderers lone!
Hark to the wind upon the hill!

poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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They Loved One Another

THEY loved one another! young Edward and his wife,
And in their cottage-home they dwelt, apart from sin and strife.
Each evening Edward weary came from a day of honest toil,
And Mary made the fire blaze, and smiled a cheerful smile.
Oh! what was wealth or pomp to them, the gaudy glittering show,
Of jewels blazing on the breast, where heaves a heart of woe!
The merry laugh, the placid sleep, were theirs; they hated sloth,
And all the little that they had, belonged alike to both,
For they loved one another!

They loved one another; but one of them is gone,
And by that vainly cheerful hearth poor Edward sits alone.
He gazes round on all which used to make his heart rejoice,
And he misses Mary's gentle smile, he misses Mary's voice.
There are many in this chilly world who would not care to part,
Tho' they dwell together in one home, and ought to have one heart,
And yet they live! while never more those happy ones may meet;
And the echo from her home is gone of Mary's busy feet:
And they loved one another!

They loved one another! but she hath past away,
And taken with her all the light, the sunshine of his day;
And Edward makes no loud lament, nor idly sits and mourns,
But quietly goes forth at morn, and quietly returns.
The cottage now is still and dark, no welcome bids him home,
He passes it and wanders on, to sit by Mary's tomb.
Oh! weep my friends-for very sad and bitter it must be
To yearn for some familiar face we never more may see-
When we loved one another!

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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‘He came unto His own, and His own received Him not’

As Christ the Lord was passing by,
He came, one night, to a cottage door.
He came, a poor man, to the poor;
He had no bed whereon to lie.

He asked in vain for a crust of bread,
Standing there in the frozen blast.
The door was locked and bolted fast.
‘Only a beggar!’ the poor man said.

Christ the Lord went further on,
Until He came to a palace gate.
There a king was keeping his state,
In every window the candles shone.

The king beheld Him out in the cold.
He left his guests in the banquet-hall.
He bade his servants tend them all.
‘I wait on a Guest I know of old.’

‘’Tis only a beggar-man!’ they said.
‘Yes,’ he said; ‘it is Christ the Lord.’
He spoke to Him a kindly word,
He gave Him wine and he gave Him bread.

Now Christ is Lord of Heaven and Hell,
And all the words of Christ are true.
He touched the cottage, and it grew;
He touched the palace, and it fell.

The poor man is become a king.
Never was man so sad as he.
Sorrow and Sin on the throne make three,
He has no joy in mortal thing.

But the sun streams in at the cottage door
That stands where once the palace stood.
And the workman, toiling to earn his food,
Was never a king before.

poem by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
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The Lament For Shuil Donald’s Daughter

I.

IN old Shuil Donald's cottage there are many voices weeping,
And stifled sobs, and murmurings of sorrow wild and vain,
For the old man's cherish'd blessing on her bed of death lies sleeping,--
The sleep from which no human wish can rouse her soul again.
Oh, dark are now those gentle eyes which shone beneath their lashes
So full of laughter and of love--it seems but yesterday--
Well may Shuil Donald mourn beside his hearth's forsaken ashes,
His lily of the valley is wither'd away!
II.

The spring shall come to other hearts with breezes and with showers,
But lonely winter still shall reign in old Shuil Donald's home;
Others may raise the song of joy, and laugh away the hours,
But he--oh! never more may joy to his lone dwelling come.
Her name shall be an empty sound, in idle converse spoken,
Forgotten shall she be by those who mourn her most to-day--
All, all but one, who wanders with his Highland spirit broken,
His lily of the valley is wither'd away!
III.

And he--long, long, at even-tide, when sunset rays are gleaming,
That sad old man shall sit within his lonely cottage door,
Desolate, desolate shall sit, and muse with idle dreaming
On days when her returning step came quick across the moor.
Oh! never more her quiet smile, her cheerful voice of greeting,
Shall rouse to warmth his aged heart, when darkly sinks the day--
Never, oh! never more on earth those loved ones may be meeting--
His lily of the valley is wither'd away!

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Poverty

I saw an old cottage of clay,
And only of mud was the floor;
It was all falling into decay,
And the snow drifted in at the door.

Yet there a poor family dwelt,
In a hovel so dismal and rude;
And though gnawing hunger they felt,
They had not a morsel of food.

The children were crying for bread,
And to their poor mother they’d run;
‘Oh, give us some breakfast,’ they said,
Alas! their poor mother had none.

She viewed them with looks of despair,
She said (and I’m sure it was true),
‘’Tis not for myself that I care,
But, my poor little children, for you.’

O then, let the wealthy and gay
But see such a hovel as this,
That in a poor cottage of clay
They may know what true misery is.
And what I may have to bestow
I never will squander away,
While many poor people I know
Around me are wretched as they.

poem by Jane Taylor
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Sitting by the Fire

Barren Age and withered World!
Oh! the dying leaves,
Like a drizzling rain,
Falling round the roof -
Pattering on the pane!
Frosty Age and cold, cold World!
Ghosts of other days,
Trooping past the faded fire,
Flit before the gaze.
Now the wind goes soughing wild
O'er the whistling Earth;
And we front a feeble flame,
Sitting round the hearth!
Sitting by the fire,
Watching in its glow,
Ghosts of other days
Trooping to and fro.

Oh, the nights - the nights we've spent,
Sitting by the fire,
Cheerful in its glow;
Twenty summers back -
Twenty years ago!
If the days were days of toil
Wherefore should we mourn;
There were shadows near the shine,
Flowers with the thorn?
And we still can recollect
Evenings spent in mirth -
Fragments of a broken life,
Sitting round the hearth:
Sitting by the fire,
Cheerful in its glow,
Twenty summers back -
Twenty years ago.

Beauty stooped to bless us once,
Sitting by the fire,
Happy in its glow;
Forty summers back -
Forty years ago.
Words of love were interchanged,
Maiden hearts we stole;
And the light affection throws
Slept on every soul.
Oh, the hours went flying past -
Hours of priceless worth;
But we took no note of Time,
Sitting round the hearth:
Sitting by the fire,
Happy in its glow,
Forty summers back -
Forty years ago.

Gleesome children were we not?
Sitting by the fire,
Ruddy in its glow,
Sixty summers back -
Sixty years ago.
Laughing voices filled the room;
Oh, the songs we sung,
When the evenings hurried by -
When our hearts were young!
Pleasant faces watched the flame -
Eyes illumed with mirth -
And we told some merry tales,
Sitting round the hearth:
Sitting by the fire,
Ruddy in its glow,
Sixty summers back -
Sixty years ago.

Barren Age and withered World!
Oh, the dying leaves,
Like a drizzling rain,
Falling round the roof -
Pattering on the pane!
Frosty Age and cold, cold World!
Ghosts of other days,
Trooping past the faded fire,
Flit before the gaze.
Now the wind goes soughing wild
O'er the whistling Earth;
And we front a feeble flame,
Sitting round the hearth:
Sitting by the fire,
Watching, in its glow,
Ghosts of other days
Trooping to and fro!

poem by Henry Kendall
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The Poor

Few, save the poor, feel for the poor:
The rich know not how hard
It is to be of needful food
And needful rest debarred.

Their paths are paths of plenteousness,
They sleep on silk and down;
And never think how heavily
The weary head lies down.

They know not of the scanty meal,
With small pale faces round;
No fire upon the cold, damp hearth
When snow is on the ground.

They never by the window lean,
And see the gay pass by;
Then take their weary task again,
But with a sadder eye.

poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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A Little Cottage

A little cottage nestled in the hills,
its roof is thatched
and it windows carry Georgian squares.
In its garden pretty flowers grow;
while in the fields,
seeds of corn are sown.
Snug within its stonewalls
lives a family,
husband, wife and their two sons.
Sadness filled the cottage one day
when the sons were called to war.
Candles were lit; prayers were said
for their safe return.
Years rolled by, paintwork peeled,
but the little cottage was still a home
with its fire warm.
Day after day, year after year
they waited for their sons return.
Then came what they dreaded most,
letters laced with black
to say that their sons had fallen
in fields far away
and would not be coming back.
A wreath of black hangs on the door
for their soldier boys
who will come home no more.
Sorrow again gripped the walls.
As years followed,
the little cottage fell into disrepair.
Within this once happy home
only sadness rang.
The husband and wife
grew old in their years,
but always held the memory
of two young lost lives.
Slowly they too faded away.
Now the little cottage
stands silent for all to see.
Falling down from lack of repair,
but always holding memories
of happiness once there.

poem by David Harris
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Daft

In the warm yellow smile of the morning,
She stands at the lattice pane,
And watches the strong young binders
Stride down to the fields of grain.
And she counts them over and over
As they pass her cottage door:
Are they six, she counts them seven;
Are they seven, she counts one more.

When the sun swings high in the heavens,
And the reapers go shouting home,
She calls to the household, saying,
'Make haste! for the binders have come
And Johnnie will want his dinner -
He was always a hungry child';
And they answer, 'Yes, it ia waiting';
Then tell you, 'Her brain is wild.'

Again, in the hush of the evening,
When the work of the day is done,
And the binders go singing homeward
In the last red rays of the sun,
She will sit at the threshold waiting,
And with her withered face lights with joy:
'Come, Johnnie, ' she says, as they pass her,
'Come into the house, my boy.'

Five summers ago her Johnnie
Went out in the smile of the morn,
Singing across the meadow,
Striding down through the corn -
He towered above the binders,
Walking on either side,
And the mother's heart within her
Swelled with exultant pride.

For he was the light of the household -
His brown eyes were wells of truth,
And his face was the face of the morning,
Lit with its pure, fresh youth,
And his song rang out from the hilltops
Like the mellow blast of a horn,
And he strode o'er the fresh shorn meadows,
And down through the rows of corn.

But hushed were the voices of singing,
Hushed by the presence of death,
As back to the cottage they bore him -
In the noontide's scorching breath,
For the heat of the sun had slain him,
Had smitten the heart in his breast,
And he who towered above them
Lay lower than all the rest.

The grain grows ripe in the sunshine,
And the summers ebb and flow,
And the binders stride to their labour
And sing as they come and go;
But never again from the hilltops
Echoes the voice like a horn;
Never up from the meadows,
Never back from the corn.

Yet the poor, crazed brain of the mother
Fancies him always near;
She is blest in her strange delusion,
For she knoweth no pain nor fear,
And always she counts the binders
As they pass by her cottage door;
Are they six, she counts them seven;
Are they seven, she counts one more.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Widow

Cold was the night wind, drifting fast the snows fell,
Wide were the downs and shelterless and naked,
When a poor Wanderer struggled on her journey
Weary and way-sore.

Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflexions;
Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom!
She had no home, the world was all before her,
She had no shelter.

Fast o'er the bleak heath rattling drove a chariot,
"Pity me!" feebly cried the poor night wanderer.
"Pity me Strangers! lest with cold and hunger
Here I should perish.

"Once I had friends,--but they have all forsook me!
"Once I had parents,--they are now in Heaven!
"I had a home once--I had once a husband--
"Pity me Strangers!

"I had a home once--I had once a husband--
"I am a Widow poor and broken-hearted!"
Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining.
On drove the chariot.

On the cold snows she laid her down to rest her;
She heard a horseman, "pity me!" she groan'd out;
Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining,
On went the horseman.

Worn out with anguish, toil and cold and hunger,
Down sunk the Wanderer, sleep had seiz'd her senses;
There, did the Traveller find her in the morning,
GOD had releast her.

poem by Robert Southey
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There's Snow On The Fields

There's snow on the fields,
And cold in the cottage,
While I sit in the chimney nook
Supping hot pottage.
My clothes are soft and warm,
Fold upon fold,
But I'm so sorry for the poor
Out in the cold.

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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The Beech Tree

MY beautiful beech, your smooth grey coat is trimmed
With letters. Once, each stood for all things dear
To foolish lovers, dead this many a year,
Whose lamp of lighted love so soon was dimmed.
You have seen them come and go,
And heard their kisses and vows
Under your boughs,
The pitiful vows they swore,
Have seen their poor tears flow,
Have seen them part; to meet, and to return, no more!

And in old winters, through your branches bare,
The north wind drove the blue home-scented smoke
That on the glowing Christmas hearth awoke
Where the old logs, with eager flicker and flare,
Sang their low crackling song
Of peace and of good will.
The old song is still,
The old voices have died away,
The hearth has been cold so long,
And the bright faces dimmed and covered up with clay.

And summer after summer wakes to glow
The ordered pleasance with the clipped box-hedge,
The drooping lilac by the old moat's edge,
The roses, that throw you kisses from below,
The orchard pink and white,
The sedge's whispered words,
The nesting birds,
All these return to revel round your feet.
And in the untroubled night
The nightingale still sings, the jasmine still is sweet.

My beautiful beech, I carve upon you here
The master-letter which begins her name
Through whom, to me, the royal summer came,
And nightingale and rose, and all things dear.
And, in some far-off time,
I shall come here, weary and old,
When the hearth in my heart is cold
And the birds that nest there flown;
I will remember this summer in all its prime
And say, 'There was a day--
Thank God, the Giver, an unforgotten day,
When I walked here, not alone,
--O God of pity and sorrow, not alone!'

poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Past

The Past

I live in a cottage that is 350 years old, wish I could have seen a ghost,
because I believe they exist. When I moved in here part of it had been
a stable and on warm nights I can still smell hey and the mule that lived
in what is now my living room. When I first came here ancient voices
emitted from the walls, people who had lived her before had toiled
the soil and lived in poverty. One cannot erase the history of past
generations where people had lived, even if their physical bodies are
no longer here but their souls remain and speak to us if we care to listen.
The cottage seemed content that someone had moved in, no house likes
to be abandoned. New roof, plastered wall voices subsided and waned
altogether, yet on this hot night I do hear sighs, smell the mules sweat.
Is it my imagination only if I see the contour of the animal and see a man
stroking its head? And talking softly.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Welcome Home

The fire burns bright
And the hearth is clean swept,
As she likes it kept,
And the lamp is alight.
She is coming to-night.

The wind's east of late.
When she comes, she'll be cold,
So the big chair is rolled
Close up to the grate,
And I listen and wait.

The shutters are fast,
And the red curtains hide
Every hint of outside.
But hark, how the blast
Whistled then as it passed!

Or was it the train?
How long shall I stand,
With my watch in my hand,
And listen in vain
For the wheels in the lane?

Hark! A rumble I hear
(Will the wind not be still?),
And it comes down the hill,
And it grows on the ear,
And now it is near.

Quick, a fresh log to burn!
Run and open the door,
Hold a lamp out before
To light up the turn,
And bring in the urn.

You are come, then, at last!
O my dear, is it you?
I can scarce think it true
I am holding you fast,
And sorrow is past.

poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Strange fits of passion have I known

Strange fits of passion have I known:
And I will dare to tell,
But in the lover's ear alone,
What once to me befell.

When she I loved looked every day
Fresh as a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath an evening-moon.

Upon the moon I fixed my eye,
All over the wide lea;
With quickening pace my horse drew nigh
Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reached the orchard-plot;
And, as we climbed the hill,
The sinking moon to Lucy's cot
Came near, and nearer still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind Nature's gentlest boon!
And all the while my eye I kept
On the descending moon.

My horse moved on; hoof after hoof
He raised, and never stopped:
When down behind the cottage roof,
At once, the bright moon dropped.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a Lover's head!
'O mercy!' to myself I cried,
'If Lucy hould be dead!'

poem by William Wordsworth
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Wanderer's Night Songs. (From Goethe)

I.
Thou that from the heavens art,
Every pain and sorrow stillest,
And the doubly wretched heart
Doubly with refreshment fillest,
I am weary with contending!
Why this rapture and unrest?
Peace descending
Come ah, come into my breast!

II.
O'er all the hill-tops
Is quiet now,
In all the tree-tops
Hearest thou
Hardly a breath;
The birds are asleep in the trees:
Wait; soon like these
Thou too shalt rest.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Seventh Sunday After Trinity

Go not away, thou weary soul:
Heaven has in store a precious dole
Here on Bethsaida's cold and darksome height,
Where over rocks and sands arise
Proud Sirion in the northern skies,
And Tabor's lonely peak, 'twixt thee and noonday light.

And far below, Gennesaret's main
Spreads many a mile of liquid plain,
(Though all seem gathered in one eager bound,)
Then narrowing cleaves you palmy lea,
Towards that deep sulphureous sea,
Where five proud cities lie, by one dire sentence drowned.

Landscape of fear! yet, weary heart,
Thou need'st not in thy gloom depart,
Nor fainting turn to seek thy distant home:
Sweetly thy sickening throbs are eyed
By the kind Saviour at thy side;
For healing and for balm e'en now thine hour is come.

No fiery wing is seen to glide,
No cates ambrosial are supplied,
But one poor fisher's rude and scanty store
Is all He asks (and more than needs)
Who men and angels daily feeds,
And stills the wailing sea-bird on the hungry shore.

The feast is o'er, the guests are gone,
And over all that upland lone
The breeze of eve sweeps wildly as of old -
But far unlike the former dreams,
The heart's sweet moonlight softly gleams
Upon life's varied view, so joyless erst and cold.

As mountain travellers in the night,
When heaven by fits is dark and bright,
Pause listening on the silent heath, and hear
Nor trampling hoof nor tinkling bell,
Then bolder scale the rugged fell,
Conscious the more of One, ne'er seen, yet ever near:

So when the tones of rapture gay
On the lorn ear, die quite away,
The lonely world seems lifted nearer heaven;
Seen daily, yet unmarked before,
Earth's common paths are strewn all o'er
With flowers of pensive hope, the wreath of man forgiven.

The low sweet tones of Nature's lyre
No more on listless ears expire,
Nor vainly smiles along the shady way
The primrose in her vernal nest,
Nor unlamented sink to rest
Sweet roses one by one, nor autumn leaves decay.

There's not a star the heaven can show,
There's not a cottage-hearth below,
But feeds with solace kind the willing soul -
Men love us, or they need our love;
Freely they own, or heedless prove
The curse of lawless hearts, the joy of self-control.

Then rouse thee from desponding sleep,
Nor by the wayside lingering weep,
Nor fear to seek Him farther in the wild,
Whose love can turn earth's worst and least
Into a conqueror's royal feast:
Thou wilt not be untrue, thou shalt not be beguiled.

poem by John Keble
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In The Bleak Midwinter

In the bleak midwinter
Frosty wind may blow
Earth stood hard as iron
Water like a stone
Snow had fallen, snow on snow
Snow on snow on snow
In the bleak midwinter
Long, long ago
What can I give him?
Poor as I am
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb
If I were a wise man
I would do my part
Yet what I can, I give him
Give my heart
Snow had fallen, snow on snow
Snow on snow on snow
In the bleak midwinter
Long, long ago

song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Repost....

a house is built
made of bricks, red as blood
at the center of the island
black as a mole
at the middle of your right
cheek

it is fenced by the locks of
your hair
it is guarded by the cautious
tongue of your face

at the other side
bounded by a big brown river
is a cottage
no living room, no kitchen
not even a restroom
it is just a square cottage
with roof leaking
where i can see the stars

if you know me well enough
for years that i have been with you
and for days that i have left you
you shall know where i live
and if you love me well enough
you'll take nothing with you
to follow me

and i know you will never be lost
until you find
the place where my heart sings

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Where I Live....you Know It.

a house is built
made of bricks, red as blood
at the center of the island
black as a mole
at the middle of your right
cheek

it is fenced by the locks of
your hair
it is guarded by the cautious
tongue of your face

at the other side
bounded by a big brown river
is a cottage
no living room, no kitchen
not even a restroom
it is just a square cottage
with roof leaking
where i can see the stars

if you know me well enough
for years that i have been with you
and for days that i have left you
you shall know where i live
and if you love me well enough
you'll take nothing with you
to follow me

and i know you will never be lost
until you find
the place where my heart sings

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sharing Dreams

He had a dream of living a life of rustic idyll, to see and feel
seasons, so he bought a derelict cottage in pastoral Algarve.
Took his wife along, explained how the cottage would look
like when done up; she said nothing. With help of workmen
he began repair and life for a while was primitive. He saw his
wife was not happy, when she said she had go home to look
after her daughter, he understood. Months went, but a day
in February the home was ready, he had even acquired a dog.
Outside the almond trees were shedding and petals looked as
pink snow. Rang her, but she didn´t want to come and live in
his bucolic wonderland. "But I thought you liked it", he said.
"You never asked me, took me for granted, this is you dream
not mine…" The cottage was still and cold, his dog sensed his
dejections jumped up on his lap liking his face. He went into
the shed, collected wood for the fireplace, his dream was now
like an old coat too comfy to throw away.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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