The Earthly Paradise: Apology
Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing,
I cannot ease the burden of your fears,
Or make quick-coming death a little thing,
Or bring again the pleasure of past years,
Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears,
Or hope again for aught that I can say,
The idle singer of an empty day.
But rather, when aweary of your mirth,
From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh,
And, feeling kindly unto all the earth,
Grudge every minute as it passes by,
Made the more mindful that the sweet days die--
--Remember me a little then I pray,
The idle singer of an empty day.
The heavy trouble, the bewildering care
That weighs us down who live and earn our bread,
These idle verses have no power to bear;
So let em sing of names remember{`e}d,
Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead,
Or long time take their memory quite away
From us poor singers of an empty day.
Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time,
Why should I strive to set the crooked straight?
Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme
Beats with light wing against the ivory gate,
Telling a tale not too importunate
To those who in the sleepy region stay,
Lulled by the singer of an empty day.
Folk say, a wizard to a northern king
At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did show,
That through one window men beheld the spring,
And through another saw the summer glow,
And through a third the fruited vines a-row,
While still, unheard, but in its wonted way,
Piped the drear wind of that December day.
So with this Earthly Paradise it is,
If ye will read aright, and pardon me,
Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss
Midmost the beating of the steely sea,
Where tossed about all hearts of men must be;
Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall slay,
Not the poor singer of an empty day.
poem by William Morris
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Related quotes
This House Is Empty Now
(costello/bacharach)
These rooms play tricks upon you
Remember when they were always filled with laughter
But now theyre quite deserted
They seem to just echo voices raised in anger
Maybe you will see my face
Reflected there on the pane
In the window up above for long
In broken home
Yet this house is empty now
Theres nothing I can do
To make you want to stay
So tell me how am I supposed to live without you
These walls were lined with pictures
Remember the glass we charged in celebration
But now I fill my life up
With all that I can to deaden this sensation
Do you recognize the face
Fixed in that fine silver frame
Were you really so unhappy there
You never said
So this house is empty now
Theres nothing I can do to make you want to stay
So tell me how am I supposed to live without you
Oh, if I could just become forgetful
When night seems endless
Does the extinguished candle care
About the darkness
Its funny how the memory
Will bring you so close then make you disappear
Meanwhile all our friends must choose
Who they will favour, who they will lose
Hang the garland high, or close the door
Or throw away the key
This house is empty now
Theres no one living here
You have to care about
This house is empty now
Theres nothing I can do
To make you want to stay
So tell me how am I supposed to live without you
This house is empty now
This house is empty now
Theres nothing I can do
This house is empty now
This house is empty now
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This House Is Empty Now (feat. Burt Bacharach)
These rooms play tricks upon you
Remember when they were always filled with laughter?
But now they're quite deserted
They seem to just echo voices raised in anger
Maybe you will see my face
Reflected there on the pane
In the window of our poor
Forlorn and broken home
Still this house is empty now
There's nothing I can do
To make you want to stay
So tell me how
Am I supposed to live without you?
These walls were lined with pictures
Remember the glass we charged in celebration?
But now I fill my life up
With all that I can to deaden this sensation
Do you recognize the face
Fixed in that fine silver frame
Were you really so unhappy then?
You never said
So this house is empty now
There's nothing I can do
To make you want to stay
So tell me how
Am I supposed to live without you?
Oh, if I could just become forgetful
When night seems endless
Does the extinguished candle care
About the darkness?
It's funny how my memry
Will bring you so close then make you disappear
Meanwhile all our friends must choose
Who they will favour, who they will lose
Hang the garland high or close the door
And throw away the key
This house is empty now
There's no one living here
You have to care about
This house is empty now
There's nothing I can do
To make you want to stay
So tell me how
Am I supposed to live without you?
This house is empty now
There's no one living here
You have to care about
This house is empty now
There's nothing I can do
To make you want to stay
So tell me how
Am I supposed to live without you
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song: The Cries of Today’s Children
I hear the cries of children,
Of children of the world; I Singer
The unwanted and unlucky,
The orphans and of streets!
I hear the cries of children,
Of children who want love;
The illiterate, sick, handicapped; II Singer
Poor, without any sheets!
I hear the cries of children,
Of children that must work; I Singer
To earn while young for family,
Have no place, time to play!
I hear the cries of children,
Of children war-ravaged;
Who know not what is joy in life, II Singer
Living in squalor, strife!
Let’s make this world for children,
A better place to live; I&II Singers together
With encouragement, dignity, * 2 times
And all love, we can give.
(
poem by John Celes
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A Villanelle
O singer of Persephone!
In the dim meadows desolate
Dost thou remember Sicily?
Still through the ivy flits the bee
Where Amaryllis lies in state;
O Singer of Persephone!
Simaetha calls on Hecate
And hears the wild dogs at the gate;
Dost thou remember Sicily?
Still by the light and laughing sea
Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate;
O Singer of Persephone!
And still in boyish rivalry
Young Daphnis challenges his mate;
Dost thou remember Sicily?
Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee,
For thee the jocund shepherds wait;
O Singer of Persephone!
Dost thou remember Sicily?
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Theocritus - A Villanelle
O singer of Persephone!
In the dim meadows desolate
Dost thou remember Sicily?
Still through the ivy flits the bee
Where Amaryllis lies in state;
O Singer of Persephone!
Simaetha calls on Hecate
And hears the wild dogs at the gate;
Dost thou remember Sicily?
Still by the light and laughing sea
Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate;
O Singer of Persephone!
And still in boyish rivalry
Young Daphnis challenges his mate;
Dost thou remember Sicily?
Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee,
For thee the jocund shepherds wait;
O Singer of Persephone!
Dost thou remember Sicily?
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Theocritus
O SINGER of Persephone!
In the dim meadows desolate
Dost thou remember Sicily?
Still through the ivy flits the bee
Where Amaryllis lies in state;
O Singer of Persephone!
Simætha calls on Hecate
And hears the wild dogs at the gate;
Dost thou remember Sicily?
Still by the light and laughing sea
Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate:
O Singer of Persephone!
And still in boyish rivalry
Young Daphnis challenges his mate:
Dost thou remember Sicily?
Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee,
For thee the jocund shepherds wait,
O Singer of Persephone!
Dost thou remember Sicily?
poem by Oscar Wilde
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I Dont Remember
I got no means to show identification
I got no papers show you what I am
Youll have to take me just the way that you find me
Whats gone is gone and I do not give a damn
Empty stomach, empty head
I got empty heart and empty bed
I dont remember
I dont remember
I dont remember, I dont recall
I got no memory of anything at all
I dont remember, I dont recall
I got no memory of anything
-anything at all
Strange is your language and I have no decoder
Why dont you make your intentions clear
With eyes to the sun and your mouth to the soda
Saying, tell me the truth, you got nothing to fear
Stop staring at me like a bird of prey
Im all mixed up, I got nothing to say
I dont remember
I dont remember
I dont remember, I dont recall
I got no memory of anything at all
I dont remember, I dont recall
I got no memory of anything
Anything at all
I dont remember, I dont recall
I got no memory of anything at all
I dont remember, I dont recall
I got no memory of anything
Absolutely anything at all
I dont remember
song performed by by Peter Gabriel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Houses of Dreams
You took my empty dreams
And filled them every one
With tenderness and nobleness,
April and the sun.
The old empty dreams
Where my thoughts would throng
Are far too full of happiness
To even hold a song.
Oh, the empty dreams were dim
And the empty dreams were wide,
They were sweet and shadowy houses
Where my thoughts could hide.
But you took my dreams away
And you made them all come true --
My thoughts have no place now to play,
And nothing now to do.
poem by Sara Teasdale
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When I finally put my guitar in the case the last time, I want to be remembered just as a singer, not as a country singer or pops singer - just a singer.
quote by Eddy Arnold
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Walking With The Lover...
walking with the Lover...
i see empty fields plowed,
come alive with crops abundant.
empty factory buildings filled
with the ghosts of hard working lives.
empty houses lit up,
and the sounds of families.
empty hands given cups and bowls,
empty hearts held close!
empty words given meaning,
empty promises fulfilled.
walking with the Lover...
touching the plenty of empty!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Just Another Empty Memory
Days we woke up together
and I held onto your hand
two lovers lying in the warm summer sand
with the smell of a passing rain in the air
thinking about the times of forever
that we would always share
And all those nights we sat outside
by the glimmering of a open fire
and would talk about our plan
in you I would always confide
my every thought of my only desire
But now all I seem to see
is just another empty memory
of everything that use to be
wondering about what we have become
A smile upon your face
a soul never lost out of place
shining like the morning sun
with moonbeams in your long brown hair
you would walk in harmony
always feeling free
was a time you saw everything in me
But now all you seem to see
is just another empty memory
of everything that use to be
wondering about what we have become
So you hide behind your tears
trying to forget those lonely years
lost inside your doubt and fears
watching it all come undone
while the time only slowly disappears
Still we both keep moving on
though our dreams are all gone
like words from some forgotten song
knowing beside each other
is where we both belong
But now all we seem to see
just another empty memory
of everything that use to be
wondering about what we have become
(spiritwind-2010)
poem by Spiritwind Wood
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The Indications
THE indications, and tally of time;
Perfect sanity shows the master among philosophs;
Time, always without flaw, indicates itself in parts;
What always indicates the poet, is the crowd of the pleasant company
of singers, and their words;
The words of the singers are the hours or minutes of the light or
dark--but the words of the maker of poems are the general light
and dark;
The maker of poems settles justice, reality, immortality,
His insight and power encircle things and the human race,
He is the glory and extract thus far, of things, and of the human
race.
The singers do not beget--only the POET begets;
The singers are welcom'd, understood, appear often enough--but rare
has the day been, likewise the spot, of the birth of the maker
of poems, the Answerer, 10
(Not every century, or every five centuries, has contain'd such a
day, for all its names.)
The singers of successive hours of centuries may have ostensible
names, but the name of each of them is one of the singers,
The name of each is, eye-singer, ear-singer, head-singer, sweet-
singer, echo-singer, parlor-singer, love-singer, or something
else.
All this time, and at all times, wait the words of true poems;
The words of true poems do not merely please,
The true poets are not followers of beauty, but the august masters of
beauty;
The greatness of sons is the exuding of the greatness of mothers and
fathers,
The words of poems are the tuft and final applause of science.
Divine instinct, breadth of vision, the law of reason, health,
rudeness of body, withdrawnness,
Gayety, sun-tan, air-sweetness--such are some of the words of
poems. 20
The sailor and traveler underlie the maker of poems, the answerer;
The builder, geometer, chemist, anatomist, phrenologist, artist--all
these underlie the maker of poems, the answerer.
The words of the true poems give you more than poems,
They give you to form for yourself, poems, religions, politics, war,
peace, behavior, histories, essays, romances, and everything
else,
They balance ranks, colors, races, creeds, and the sexes,
They do not seek beauty--they are sought,
Forever touching them, or close upon them, follows beauty, longing,
fain, love-sick.
They prepare for death--yet are they not the finish, but rather the
outset,
They bring none to his or her terminus, or to be content and full;
Whom they take, they take into space, to behold the birth of stars,
to learn one of the meanings, 30
To launch off with absolute faith--to sweep through the ceaseless
rings, and never be quiet again.
poem by Walt Whitman
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The Green Singer
ALL singers have shadows
That follow like fears,
But I know a singer
Who never saw tears;
A gay love—a green love—
Delightsome—divine:
The Spring is that singer—
An old love of mine!
All players have shadows,
And into the play
Old sorrows will saunter—
Old sorrows will stay.
But here is a player
Whose speech is divine:
The Spring is that player—
An old love of mine!
All singers grow heavy:
Their hours as they run
Bite up all the blossoms,
Suck up all the sun;
But I know a singer
Delightsome—divine:
The gay love—the green love—
An old love of mine!
poem by John Shaw Neilson
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Loneliest Time Of The Year
Christmas is the loneliest time of the year
as we remember those whom have passed along
and can never again be near.
An empty stocking on the fireplace
where a filled one should be,
the vacant place under the tree
where presents should be,
The empty space in our hearts
we carry with us all the time
and sadness lines our faces
that should be filled with smiles.
Christmas should be a time of celebration,
but with the empty spaces
there is no cheer here
in the loneliest time of the year.
poem by David Harris
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Sweet Music Man
Sing your song sweet music man
Cuz I won't be there to hold your hand
Like I used to
I'm through with you
You're a hell of a singer and a powerful man
But you surround yourself with people who demand so little of you
You touched my -heart- (its suposed to be soul) with your beautiful song
You even had me singing along right with you
You said I need you
Then you changed the words and added harmony
And you sang the song you had written for to someone new
~Chorus~
Nobody sings a love song quite like you do
Nobody else can make me sing along
Nobody else can make me feel that things are right when I know they're wrong
Nobody sings a love song quite like you
~
Sing your song sweet music man
You travel the world with your six-piece band
That does for you
What you ask them to
You try to stay young but the songs you've sung to so many people
They've all begun to come back on you
Sing your song sad music man
Your making your living doin one night stands
They're through with you
They don't need you
You're still a hell of a singer but a broken man
But you'll keep searching for that one last fan
To sing to
~Chorus~
song performed by by Reba Mcentire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Indian Summer
Barry gibb/larry gatlin
You were a lady - like lady I was a boy running wild
The way that you used everything that God gave you
I gave you my heart like a child, one moment you took me to heaven
Took me back to earth and then before I woke up to the fact I was small you took me back to heaven again
And I remember the indian summer how you held me, how you loved me (loved me loved me)
The world may give me a million reasons but reasons dont make it wrong
Every lesson I learned has a price in return I was lost in my youth and to tell you the truth
I was empty and you filled me with a glow of love a loving loves may die
Just to hear you that sees me through, oh what Id give to re-live all the indian summers with you
So many hearts have been broken (dum dum dum dum-by do wah)
You had no trouble with mine like a fool I was there for the taking (but then)
It was only a matter of time you can lie in the sun with the warm wind blowing
Just knowing youve already paid but you cant live alone in an indian summer at 110 in the shade
And I remember (and I remember) the indian summer
How you held me in the moonlight
We were riding along on a silver dream never dreaming it off our head
And if Id known Id lose you the moment I found you Id love you all over again
Cos Im still empty (Im still empty) come fill me ( come fill me)
With a fire of love your flame will follow flame cos its all I want to do
Oh what Id give to re-live all the indian summers with you
Oh what Id give to re-live all the indian summers with you
Oh what Id give to re-live all the indian summers with you
Oh what Id give to re-live all the indian summers with you-oooooooooooooooooo
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Empty time, empty place. Empty heart, empty space.
Empty time, empty place.
Empty heart, empty space.
Give a little, fight a war
Take a lot, there is more.
Left to die, all alone.
Blackened sins to atone.
In a place by a stream,
in a dark, empty dream.
In a room candles glow.
Truth prevails if you know.
Something sweet and something blue.
Something with a natural hue.
O'Bruaidar
I will sing no more songs: the pride of my country I sang
Through forty long years of good rhyme, without any avail;
And no one cared even as much as the half of a hang
For the song or the singer, so here is an end to the tale.
If a person should think I complain and have not got the cause,
Let him bring his eyes here and take a good look at my hand,
Let him say if a goose-quill has calloused this poor pair of paws
Or the spade that I grip on and dig with out there in the land?
When the great ones were safe and renowned and were rooted and tough,
Though my mind went to them and took joy in the fortune of those,
And pride in their pride and their fame, they gave little enough,
Not as much as two boots for my feet, or an old suit of clothes.
I ask a Craftsman that fashioned the fly and the bird,
Of the Champion whose passion will lift me from death in a time,
Of the Spirit that melts icy hearts with the wind of a word,
That my people be worthy, and get, better singing than mine.
I had hoped to live decent, when Ireland was quit of her care,
As a bailiff or steward perhaps in a house of degree,
But my end of the tale is, old brogues and old britches to wear,
So I'll sing no more songs for the men that care nothing for me.
poem by James Stephens
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Pop Singer
Never wanted to be no pop singer,
Never wanted to write no pop songs.
Never had no weird hair to get my songs over.
Never wanted to hang out after the show.
Pop singer (writing) of pop songs.
Never wanted to have my picture taken.
Now, who would want to look into these eyes?
Just want to make it real - good, bad or indifferent.
Thats the way that I live and thats the way that Ill die (as a)
Pop singer (of) pop songs.
Pop singer, writing of pop song.
Never wanted to be no pop singer,
Never want to write no pop songs.
Never wanted to have a manager over for dinner.
Never wanted to hang out after the show.
Pop singer, writing pop songs.
Never wanted to be no pop singer, of pop songs.
A pop singer.
Never wanted to write no pop songs.
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Empty Boxes
woke up to Voltaire
and Tolstoy, black coffee,
and cigarettes....
heavy fog on a crooked road,
Christmas lights blinking,
and a dead stillness....
the moan of empty houses,
empty factories, empty streets,
and the whisper of children,
food stamps hung in their stockings!
an old stray cat waiting to be fed,
and the heaviness of the mongrels,
left to work the streets.
somewhere bells are ringing,
right here not the scent;
a cross painted on a brick wall,
empty boxes blown by the wind!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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