A Parsonage In Oxfordshire
Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends,
Is marked by no distinguishable line;
The turf unites, the pathways intertwine;
And, wheresoe'er the stealing footstep tends,
Garden, and that domain where kindred, friends,
And neighbours rest together, here confound
Their several features, mingled like the sound
Of many waters, or as evening blends
With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower,
Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave;
And while those lofty poplars gently wave
Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky
Bright as the glimpses of eternity,
To saints accorded in their mortal hour.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Related quotes
To Sir Walter Scott
Since last I saw that countenance so mild,
Slow-stealing age, and a faint line of care,
Had gently touched, methought, some features there;
Yet looked the man as placid as a child,
And the same voice,--whilst mingled with the throng,
Unknowing, and unknown, we passed along,--
That voice, a share of the brief time beguiled!
That voice I ne'er may hear again, I sighed
At parting,--wheresoe'er our various way,
In this great world,--but from the banks of Tweed,
As slowly sink the shades of eventide,
Oh! I shall hear the music of his reed,
Far off, and thinking of that voice, shall say,
A blessing rest upon thy locks of gray!
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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June
I gazed upon the glorious sky
And the green mountains round,
And thought that when I came to lie
At rest within the ground,
"Twere pleasant, that in flowery June,
When brooks send up a cheerful tune,
And groves a joyous sound,
The sexton's hand, my grave to make,
The rich, green mountain-turf should break.
A cell within the frozen mould,
A coffin borne through sleet,
And icy clods above it rolled,
While fierce the tempests beat--
Away!--I will not think of these--
Blue be the sky and soft the breeze,
Earth green beneath the feet,
And be the damp mould gently pressed
Into my narrow place of rest.
There through the long, long summer hours,
The golden light should lie,
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
Stand in their beauty by.
The oriole should build and tell
His love-tale close beside my cell;
The idle butterfly
Should rest him there, and there be heard
The housewife bee and humming-bird.
And what if cheerful shouts at noon
Come, from the village sent,
Or songs of maids, beneath the moon
With fairy laughter blent?
And what if, in the evening light,
Betrothed lovers walk in sight
Of my low monument?
I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight nor sound.
I know that I no more should see
The season's glorious show,
Nor would its brightness shine for me,
Nor its wild music flow;
But if, around my place of sleep,
The friends I love should come to weep,
They might not haste to go.
Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.
These to their softened hearts should bear
The thought of what has been,
And speak of one who cannot share
The gladness of the scene;
Whose part, in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills,
Is that his grave is green;
And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear again his living voice.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Song from “Fayette
Why doth the dawning speak of her?
What kindred hath she with the morn?
Why should my wakening thoughts transfer
To her the glow in Orient born?
I only know that wheresoe'er
Awaketh Beauty, she is there.
Why is the noontide full of her?
What kindred hath she with the sun?
Why should the whole world's minister
Be eloquent alone of one?
I only know that wheresoe'er
Exulteth Beauty, she is there.
Why is the midnight fraught with her?
What kindred hath she with the night?
O dreams that are of things that were,
Ye change my darkness into light!
I know, I know that wheresoe'er
Reposeth Beauty, she is there.
poem by James Brunton Stephens
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In The Flower Garden
In the flower garden
The flowers are pink and white
The sky is blue
And it drags along the clouds of white
Friends of mine are waiting for me
Friends of mine are waiting to give me information
and advice
After receiving careful words from my friends
I continue on my way through the flower garden
In the flower garden
I spy my animal friends
A lizard and a bee
Both willing to help me
Either by running along the ground
Flying in the air
Or climbing a tree
Both are willing to help me get to safety
Both are willing to help me to survive
With all the obstacles, snakes, and evil seeds
around
After besting all the enemies
My animal friends and I reach the end of the
flower garden
They've done their job
And for that I'm grateful
I wish my animal friends well
Offering them a warm goodbye
As they make their way back to the flower garden
And leave me to continue on my adventure
poem by Justin Gildow
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Double Helix Abecedarian - Temptations
A maiden fair met Mr. Z,
Zealous bigot not her cup of teA,
Before accepting Mr. Y
Years eight and eighty, not a deB,
Could nor with him nor Mr. X,
Xanax share, they weren't pneumatiC.
Decided that Mr. W
Was far too fat, had a big heaD,
Ended that and turned to Mr. V -
Viagra prized more than virtuE.
Found naught in common with Mr. U
Unkempt, distraught and very stifF
Gladly told him so and lefT
To an appointment with Mr.G -
His voice was raucous, spectacleS
Shady, of uncertain healtH,
Insensitive, an arrant cuR,
Ready to furnish alibI.
Judged him too seedy. Mr. Q
Questions refused to answer. Mr. J
Knew little, so she lost no sleeP,
Perplexedly, lost, in the darK.
Little Miss French called Mr. O
Of Bury St. Edmonds, and, bad girL
Made eyes, flirting with other meN
Now here now there as Cupid's aiM,
Netted another victim, SaM:
Most unfortunately Sam loved BeN,
Or was it Harry PercevaL,
'Life's full of surprises', she said, 'whO
Prepares for doomsday earthquake cracK? '
Kind lady then turned to Mr P
Queried his clothes, while Mr. J.
Just turned her down for some Miss Q -
Rebuttal neither you nor I
Is sure to understand because her floweR
Scent seductive low and higH?
Had perfumed all about who pasS
Their days around her, praises sinG,
Giff thanks for such a musky wafT,
Unusual neighborhoods does whifF.
Fair lady recovered, Mr. U,
Vain she found him, then fell her eyE
Eagle like on Mr. V
Who seemed as favorite most aheaD -
Dream dashed too soon when she did knoW.
Xavier his name was, saturnine sceptiC,
Crude of speech and rude of seX
Yet self-important spendthrift criB.
Befuddled by love she turned to Lady SlY,
Zara by name, who pleased sublime papA -
And thats tale gate date end from A to Z.
written tongue in cheek in respect of forms as in double helix abecedarian
variation on a theme Poetic Pizza Extravaganza - Temptations - Xylophonic Resonance He Licks Enigmatic
The first line begins with A and ends with Z
the next line begins with Z and ends with A
The next line begins with B and ends with Y
The next line begins with Y and ends with B
The next line begins with C and ends with X
The next line begins with X and ends with C etc etc etc
(24 February 2009)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Love Unites
Love unites cultures, families and friends,
Love unites traditions from generations past,
Our connection provides union and respect that is timeless,
Love unites cultures, families and friends :)
Love unites special childhood friends,
Love unites nurturing relationships that have helped us grow.
Our hearts embrace the beautiful memories that have empowered us,
Love unites special childhood friends :)
Love unites passionate people who help,
Love unites our compassion and sympathy for others,
Our caring actions and encouraging words spark inspiration,
Love unites passionate people who help :)
Love unites everyone and everything always,
Love unites all life effortlessly,
Our awareness expands as we embrace our intimacy everywhere,
Love unites everyone and everything always :)
poem by Paul Jensen Jr
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The Valley Of Unrest
Once it smiled a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sunlight lazily lay.
Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless-
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Uneasily, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye-
Over the lilies there that wave
And weep above a nameless grave!
They wave:- from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep:- from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.
poem by Edgar Allan Poe
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To the River Charles
River! that in silence windest
Through the meadows, bright and free,
Till at length thy rest thou findest
In the bosom of the sea!
Four long years of mingled feeling,
Half in rest, and half in strife,
I have seen thy waters stealing
Onward, like the stream of life.
Thou hast taught me, Silent River!
Many a lesson, deep and long;
Thou hast been a generous giver;
I can give thee but a song.
Oft in sadness and in illness,
I have watched thy current glide,
Till the beauty of its stillness
Overflowed me, like a tide.
And in better hours and brighter,
When I saw thy waters gleam,
I have felt my heart beat lighter,
And leap onward with thy stream.
Not for this alone I love thee,
Nor because thy waves of blue
From celestial seas above thee
Take their own celestial hue.
Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee,
And thy waters disappear,
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee,
And have made thy margin dear.
More than this;--thy name reminds me
Of three friends, all true and tried;
And that name, like magic, binds me
Closer, closer to thy side.
Friends my soul with joy remembers!
How like quivering flames they start,
When I fan the living embers
On the hearth-stone of my heart!
'T is for this, thou Silent River!
That my spirit leans to thee;
Thou hast been a generous giver,
Take this idle song from me.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Tis said, that some have died for love
'Tis said, that some have died for love:
And here and there a churchyard grave is found
In the cold north's unhallowed ground,
Because the wretched man himself had slain,
His love was such a grievous pain.
And there is one whom I five years have known;
He dwells alone
Upon Helvellyn's side:
He loved--the pretty Barbara died;
And thus he makes his moan:
Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid
When thus his moan he made:
'Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak!
Or let the aged tree uprooted lie,
That in some other way yon smoke
May mount into the sky!
The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart.
I look--the sky is empty space;
I know not what I trace;
But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart.
'Oh! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves,
That murmur once so dear, when will it cease?
Your sound my heart of rest bereaves,
It robs my heart of peace.
Thou Thrush, that singest loud--and loud and free,
Into yon row of willows flit,
Upon that alder sit;
Or sing another song, or choose another tree.
'Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain-bounds,
And there for ever be thy waters chained!
For thou dost haunt the air with sounds
That cannot be sustained;
If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough
Headlong yon waterfall must come,
Oh let it then be dumb!
Be anything, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now.
'Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny showers,
Proud as a rainbow spanning half the vale,
Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers,
And stir not in the gale.
For thus to see thee nodding in the air,
To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,
Thus rise and thus descend,--
Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can dear.'
The Man who makes this feverish complaint
Is one of giant stature, who could dance
Equipped from head to foot in iron mail.
Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine
To store up kindred hours for me, thy face
Turn from me, gentle Love! nor let me walk
Within the sound of Emma's voice, nor know
Such happiness as I have known to-day.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Silent Night (feat. Cormac Breatnach & Martin Dunlea)
Silent night, holy night!
All is calm, all is bright.
Round yon Virgin, Mother and Child.
Holy infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Silent night, holy night!
Shepherds quake at the sight.
Glories stream from heaven afar
Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia,
Christ the Savior is born!
Christ the Savior is born.
Silent night, holy night!
Silent night, holy night!
Son of God love's pure light.
Radiant beams from Thy holy face
With dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus Lord, at Thy birth.
Jesus Lord, at Thy birth.
Silent night, holy night!
Silent night, holy night!
song performed by by Vanessa Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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After A Lecture On Moore
SHINE soft, ye trembling tears of light
That strew the mourning skies;
Hushed in the silent dews of night
The harp of Erin lies.
What though her thousand years have past
Of poets, saints, and kings,--
Her echoes only hear the last
That swept those golden strings.
Fling o'er his mound, ye star-lit bowers,
The balmiest wreaths ye wear,
Whose breath has lent your earth-born flowers
Heaven's own ambrosial air.
Breathe, bird of night, thy softest tone,
By shadowy grove and rill;
Thy song will soothe us while we own
That his was sweeter still.
Stay, pitying Time, thy foot for him
Who gave thee swifter wings,
Nor let thine envious shadow dim
The light his glory flings.
If in his cheek unholy blood
Burned for one youthful hour,
'T was but the flushing of the bud
That blooms a milk-white flower.
Take him, kind mother, to thy breast,
Who loved thy smiles so well,
And spread thy mantle o'er his rest
Of rose and asphodel.
The bark has sailed the midnight sea,
The sea without a shore,
That waved its parting sign to thee,--
'A health to thee, Tom Moore!'
And thine, long lingering on the strand,
Its bright-hued streamers furled,
Was loosed by age, with trembling hand,
To seek the silent world.
Not silent! no, the radiant stars
Still singing as they shine,
Unheard through earth's imprisoning bars,
Have voices sweet as thine.
Wake, then, in happier realms above,
The songs of bygone years,
Till angels learn those airs of love
That ravished mortal ears!
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Tis Said, That Some Have Died For Love
'Tis said, that some have died for love:
And here and there a churchyard grave is found
In the cold north's unhallowed ground,
Because the wretched man himself had slain,
His love was such a grievous pain.
And there is one whom I five years have known;
He dwells alone
Upon Helvellyn's side:
He loved--the pretty Barbara died;
And thus he makes his moan:
Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid
When thus his moan he made:
"Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak!
Or let the aged tree uprooted lie,
That in some other way yon smoke
May mount into the sky!
The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart.
I look--the sky is empty space;
I know not what I trace;
But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart.
"Oh! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves,
That murmur once so dear, when will it cease?
Your sound my heart of rest bereaves,
It robs my heart of peace.
Thou Thrush, that singest loud--and loud and free,
Into yon row of willows flit,
Upon that alder sit;
Or sing another song, or choose another tree.
"Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain-bounds,
And there for ever be thy waters chained!
For thou dost haunt the air with sounds
That cannot be sustained;
If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough
Headlong yon waterfall must come,
Oh let it then be dumb!
Be anything, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now.
"Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny showers,
Proud as a rainbow spanning half the vale,
Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers,
And stir not in the gale.
For thus to see thee nodding in the air,
To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,
Thus rise and thus descend,--
Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can dear."
The Man who makes this feverish complaint
Is one of giant stature, who could dance
Equipped from head to foot in iron mail.
Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine
To store up kindred hours for me, thy face
Turn from me, gentle Love! nor let me walk
Within the sound of Emma's voice, nor know
Such happiness as I have known to-day.
poem by William Wordsworth
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The Venetian Gondolier
Here rest the weary oar! -- soft airs
Breathe out in the o'erarching sky;
And Night!-- sweet Night -- serenely wears
A smile of peace; her noon is nigh.
Where the tall fir in quiet stands,
And waves, embracing the chaste shores,
Move o'er sea-shells and bright sands,-
Is heard the sound of dipping oars.
Swift o'er the wave the light bark springs,
Love's midnight hour draws lingering near:
And list!-- his tuneful viol strings
The young Venetian Gondolier.
Lo! on the silver-mirrored deep,
On earth, and her embosomed lakes,
And where the silent rivers sweep,
From the thin cloud fair moonlight breaks
Soft music breathes around, and dies
On the calm bosom of the sea;
Whilst in her cell the novice sighs
Her vespers to her rosary.
At their dim altars bow fair forms,
In tender charity for those,
That, helpless left to life's rude storms,
Have never found this calm repose.
The bell swings to its midnight chime,
Relieved against the deep blue sky!--
Haste!-- dip the oar again! -- 'tis time
To seek Genevra's balcony.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Snow On Christmas(revised)
The snow comes down so gently like God’s Love for Mary and for us
When he gave us Jesus and Mary remained pure as snow.
Jesus was conceived in her virgin’s womb.
Snow is clean and bright as her love for Jesus Christ.
Snow is soft like the skin of Jesus
a newborn baby on Christmas Night.
The snow flying gently to the ground like a white dove
which come without a sound this reminds me of the Holy Spirit.
Also the angels wings of Gabriel Who told Mary,
She was chosen by God to bear his son.
poem by Meg Harrison
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The Siesta
FROM THE SPANISH.
Vientecico murmurador,
Que lo gozas y andas todo, &c.
Airs, that wander and murmur round,
Bearing delight where'er ye blow!
Make in the elms a lulling sound,
While my lady sleeps in the shade below.
Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest,
Till the heat of the noonday sun is o'er.
Sweet be her slumbers! though in my breast
The pain she has waked may slumber no more.
Breathing soft from the blue profound,
Bearing delight where'er ye blow,
Make in the elms a lulling sound,
While my lady sleeps in the shade below.
Airs! that over the bending boughs,
And under the shade of pendent leaves,
Murmur soft, like my timid vows
Or the secret sighs my bosom heaves,--
Gently sweeping the grassy ground,
Bearing delight where'er ye blow,
Make in the elms a lulling sound,
While my lady sleeps in the shade below.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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Friends.... Old Friends......
Friends… old friends…
One sees how it ends.
A woman looks
Or a man lies,
And the pleasant brooks
And the quiet skies,
Ruined with brawling
And caterwauling,
Enchant no more
As they did before,
And so it ends
With friends.
Friends… old friends…
And what if it ends?
Shall we dare to shirk
What we live to learn?
It has done its work,
It has served its turn;
And, forgive and forget
Or hanker and fret,
We can be no more
As we were before.
When it ends, it ends
With friends.
Friends… old friends…
So it breaks, so it ends.
There let it rest!
It has fought and won,
And is still the best
That either has done.
Each as he stands
The work of its hands
Which shall be more
As he was before?…
What is it ends
With friends?
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Silent Night
All is calm, all is bright.
Round yon Virgin, Mother and Child.
Holy infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Silent night, holy night!
Shepherds quake at the sight.
Glories stream from heaven afar
Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia,
Christ the Savior is born!
Christ the Savior is born.
Silent night, holy night!
Silent night, holy night!
Son of God love's pure light.
Radiant beams from Thy holy face
With dawn of redeeming grace,
Jesus Lord, at Thy birth.
Jesus Lord, at Thy birth.
Silent night, holy night!
Silent night, holy night!
song performed by by Vanessa Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Her Wet Hair Feels Cool on My Skin
Her wet hair feels cool on my skin
As she came fresh from the shower.
She lies near me and rest begins.
Her whispers soft, a quiet wind
Caress my senses for an hour.
Her wet hair feels cool on my skin.
I’m at peace more than ever when
I lay down with her in her bower,
She lies near me and rest begins.
Now love’s sensations lie within
A subtle simple touch of power-
Her wet hair feels cool on my skin.
She holds my heart fast with a grin
Delicately, like a flower.
She lies near me and rest begins.
I say that now if this be sin
I don’t in fear of death cower.
Her wet hair feels cool on my skin:
She lies near me and rest begins.
2009
poem by William Mcgehee
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The Nightingale
WHEN twilight's grey and pensive hour
Brings the low breeze, and shuts the flower,
And bids the solitary star
Shine in pale beauty from afar;
When gathering shades the landscape veil,
And peasants seek their village-dale,
And mists from river-wave arise,
And dew in every blossom lies;
When evening's primrose opes, to shed
Soft fragrance round her grassy bed;
When glow-worms in the wood-walk light
Their lamp, to cheer the traveller's sight;
At that calm hour, so still, so pale,
Awakes the lonely Nightingale;
And from a hermitage of shade
Fills with her voice the forest-glade.
And sweeter far that melting voice,
Than all which through the day rejoice;
And still shall bard and wanderer love
The twilight music of the grove.
Father in Heaven! oh! thus when day
With all its cares hath passed away,
And silent hours waft peace on earth,
And hush the louder strains of mirth;
Thus may sweet songs of praise and prayer
To Thee my spirit's offering bear;
Yon star, my signal, set on high,
For vesper-hymns of piety.
So may thy mercy and thy power
Protect me through the midnight hour;
And balmy sleep and visions blest
Smile on thy servant's bed of rest.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The End of the Day
The scent of jasmine fills the air,
within my garden wall
while I sit in silence
awaiting the evening to call.
The sounds of the evening are heard,
as that nocturnal wake up call
as long shadowy fingers
creep from the garden wall.
The sun begins to rest its head
as in the west it begins to fall
the sleepy sunset lights up the sky an orange glow
when the end of the day comes to call.
(5 May 2007)
poem by David Harris
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