Gipsies
Yet are they here the same unbroken knot
Of human Beings, in the self-same spot!
Men, women, children, yea the frame
Of the whole spectacle the same!
Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light,
Now deep and red, the colouring of night;
That on their Gipsy-faces falls,
Their bed of straw and blanket-walls.
--Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours are gone, while I
Have been a traveller under open sky,
Much witnessing of change and cheer,
Yet as I left I find them here!
The weary Sun betook himself to rest;--
Then issued Vesper from the fulgent west,
Outshining like a visible God
The glorious path in which he trod.
And now, ascending, after one dark hour
And one night's diminution of her power,
Behold the mighty Moon! this way
She looks as if at them--but they
Regard not her:--oh better wrong and strife
(By nature transient) than this torpid life;
Life which the very stars reprove
As on their silent tasks they move!
Yet, witness all that stirs in heaven or earth!
In scorn I speak not;--they are what their birth
And breeding suffer them to be;
Wild outcasts of society!
poem by William Wordsworth
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Before Execution.
The sun is set, and all the stars are come,
Stars I shall no more see; the air is still,
And my life waits the ruin so near now.
A little space, and I shall have done here.
Ah, God! twelve hours, twelve little hours, and, lo!
The air and these lips part, day becomes night,
Earth nothing, time a skeleton, and I
An angry ghost, or a tired phantom laid
With many others in oblivion.
Twelve hours, twelve little hours, and I shall have
A wondrous change — feel one fierce pang, and then
Fade off I know not where, or like a star
Shot fearfully from the zenith singe my way
Through chaos haply for some aeons till
I reach another air, a lower sky,
And maybe with a baleful influence
Burn in Pluto's reign.
poem by Robert Crawford
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Identity Of Moment
At twelve of night philosopher thinks with a cup of tea
At twelve of night exuded in dream
At twelve of night cloud of blue sky burns
At twelve of night strip by strip waves fall to ground
At twelve of night full moon flashes of light
At twelve of night horn of car strikes on door
At twelve of night couple enters into dwell of love
At twelve of night loud cry of progenitors comes
At twelve of night machinegun of devilish roars
At twelve of night whistles of train strikes
At twelve of night the red sun of monument raises.
poem by Bongokobida Zakaria
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The Klondike
Never mind the day we left, or the day the women clung to us;
All we need now is the last way they looked at us.
Never mind the twelve men there amid the cheering—
Twelve men or one man, ’t will soon be all the same;
For this is what we know: we are five men together,
Five left o’ twelve men to find the golden river.
Far we came to find it out, but the place was here for all of us;
Far, far we came, and here we have the last of us.
We that were the front men, we that would be early,
We that had the faith, and the triumph in our eyes:
We that had the wrong road, twelve men together,—
Singing when the devil sang to find the golden river.
Say the gleam was not for us, but never say we doubted it;
Say the wrong road was right before we followed it.
We that were the front men, fit for all forage,—
Say that while we dwindle we are front men still;
For this is what we know tonight: we’re starving here together—
Starving on the wrong road to find the golden river.
Wrong, we say, but wait a little: hear him in the corner there;
He knows more than we, and he’ll tell us if we listen there—
He that fought the snow-sleep less than all the others
Stays awhile yet, and he knows where he stays:
Foot and hand a frozen clout, brain a freezing feather,
Still he’s here to talk with us and to the golden river.
“Flow,” he says, “and flow along, but you cannot flow away from us;
All the world’s ice will never keep you far from us;
Every man that heeds your call takes the way that leads him—
The one way that’s his way, and lives his own life:
Starve or laugh, the game goes on, and on goes the river;
Gold or no, they go their way—twelve men together.
“Twelve,” he says, “who sold their shame for a lure you call too fair for them—
You that laugh and flow to the same word that urges them:
Twelve who left the old town shining in the sunset,
Left the weary street and the small safe days:
Twelve who knew but one way out, wide the way or narrow:
Twelve who took the frozen chance and laid their lives on yellow.
“Flow by night and flow by day, nor ever once be seen by them;
Flow, freeze, and flow, till time shall hide the bones of them;
Laugh and wash their names away, leave them all forgotten,
Leave the old town to crumble where it sleeps;
Leave it there as they have left it, shining in the valley,—
Leave the town to crumble down and let the women marry.
“Twelve of us or five,” he says, “we know the night is on us now:
Five while we last, and we may as well be thinking now:
Thinking each his own thought, knowing, when the light comes,
Five left or none left, the game will not be lost.
Crouch or sleep, we go the way, the last way together:
Five or none, the game goes on, and on goes the river.
“For after all that we have done and all that we have failed to do,
Life will be life and a world will have its work to do:
Every man who follows us will heed in his own fashion
The calling and the warning and the friends who do not know:
Each will hold an icy knife to punish his heart’s lover,
And each will go the frozen way to find the golden river.”
There you hear him, all he says, and the last we’ll ever get from him.
Now he wants to sleep, and that will be the best for him.
Let him have his own way—no, you needn’t shake him—
Your own turn will come, so let the man sleep.
For this is what we know: we are stalled here together—
Hands and feet and hearts of us, to find the golden river.
And there’s a quicker way than sleep? … Never mind the looks of him:
All he needs now is a finger on the eyes of him.
You there on the left hand, reach a little over—
Shut the stars away, or he’ll see them all night:
He’ll see them all night and he’ll see them all tomorrow,
Crawling down the frozen sky, cold and hard and yellow.
Won’t you move an inch or two—to keep the stars away from him?
—No, he won’t move, and there’s no need of asking him.
Never mind the twelve men, never mind the women;
Three while we last, we’ll let them all go;
And we’ll hold our thoughts north while we starve here together,
Looking each his own way to find the golden river.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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In Three Days
I
So, I shall see her in three days
And just one night, but nights are short,
Then two long hours, and that is morn.
See how I come, unchanged, unworn!
Feel, where my life broke off from thine,
How fresh the splinters keep and fine,—
Only a touch and we combine!
II
Too long, this time of year, the days!
But nights, at least the nights are short.
As night shows where her one moon is,
A hand's-breadth of pure light and bliss,
So, life's night gives my lady birth
And my eyes hold her! What is worth
The rest of heaven, the rest of earth?
III
0 loaded curls, release your store
Of warmth and scent as once before
The tingling hair did, lights and darks
Outbreaking into fairy sparks
When under curl and curl I pried
After the warmth and scent inside,
Thro' lights and darks how manifold—
The dark inspired, the light controlled!
As early Art embrowns the gold.
IV
What great fear, should one say, "Three days
That change the world, might change as well
Your fortune; and if joy delays,
Be happy that no worse befell!"
What small fear, if another says,
"Three days and one short night beside
May throw no shadow on your ways;
But years must teem with change untried,
With chance not easily defied,
With an end somewhere undescried."
No fear!—or if a fear be born
This minute, it dies out in scorn.
Fear? I shall see her in three days
And one night, now the nights are short,
Then just two hours, and that is morn.
poem by Robert Browning from Men and Women (1855)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Blindfold
this is the time in my life
when all i see is you.
a time in my life, when
i don't know what to do.
you touched my life like no one could
and my life turned from light to dark blue.
what will it take for you to love me?
there is so much more to me
than the human eye can see.
my love for you is like the light
yellow moon, rising in the east
and like the bright orange sun
going down in the west.
24 hours in all its glory
this is my love, this is my story.
if you was to take off the blindfold
so that you could see
you would surely fall in love with me.
for my love is so deep and so wide
that it covers the entire sky.
when i go to bed at night
there you are in plain sight.
and when i wake in the morning
and open up my eyes
i see you standing by my side.
you are with me 24/7, and makes me
feel like i'm in heaven.
so all i ask is that you take
a chance with me.
and i will set your heart free.
poem by Louis Rams
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Nature’s Music
Of many gifts bestowed on earth
To cheer a lonely hour,
Oh is there one of equal worth
With music’s magic power?
’Twill charm each angry thought to rest,
’Twill gloomy care dispel,
And ever we its power can test,—
All nature breathes its spell.
There’s music in the sighing tone
Of the soft, southern breeze
That whispers thro’ the flowers lone,
And bends the stately trees,
And—in the mighty ocean’s chime,
The crested breakers roar,
The wild waves, ceaseless surge sublime,
Breaking upon the shore.
There’s music in the bulbul’s note,
Warbling its vesper lay
In some fair spot, from man remote,
Where wind and flowers play;
But, oh! beyond the sweetest strain
Of bird, or wave, or grove
Is that soother of our hours of pain—
The voice of those we love.
When sorrow weigheth down the heart
The night birds sweetest lay—
The harp’s most wild and thrilling art—
Care cannot chase away;
But let affection’s voice be heard,
New springs of life ’twill ope,—
One word—one little loving word—
Will bring relief and hope.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Sunrise Gone
Night 's goes from there to here as gentle winds blow north to south flowing west to east the moon bright and full and as bright like a fire but not as warm one star two stars one million stars later flickering away into the night sky existence meaninful to meaningless as a heart bearts heavy and true one second until eternity counting back and forth until first light there goes night hello morning days anew this heart beats slow soft just like a old clock second after second like minutes that turn to hours these seconds that takes away in this beautiful things called life as sacred as your next breath in is reality this existence likes seasons and death birth life flows once more night comes again and darkness covers everything like a blanket one millions stars shimmer back into the picture sparkling away but then night goes fromhere to there back to there and a brand new cycles start all over again......nuff said! !
poem by Dorian Suchelle
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Wonderfully Saved
I have been wonderfully saved, by The Lord Jesus Christ,
Once darkened and depraved, God gave to me a new life.
From the work on the cross, God changed me from within,
Purging me of old dross, when He cleansed me of my sin.
He left me not where I was found, in the cold dark of night,
But lifted me to higher ground, up into God’s Glorious Light.
He then gave me eyes to see, and wisdom to comprehend,
A future Glory in Eternity, and that this world is not my end.
He placed my name in a book, one called The Book of Life,
As one opens to take a look, it states that I belong to Christ.
Who bought me from iniquity, redeemed by a special price,
The Sinless Lamb of Eternity, Who became God’s sacrifice.
Christ took me from the dark, to lead me in Grace and Light,
Put within me a new spark, to leave wrong and pursue right.
Not one from my own power, but it’s The Holy Spirit of God,
Leading me each day and hour, upon this pilgrim path I trod.
As He put me on this path, a promise then was given to me,
That I would not suffer wrath, but be given new life eternally.
Now this life I give to Him, my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ,
The One who died for my sin, to provide for me Eternal Life.
(Copyright ©10/2006 Bob)
Dreams
Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
My spirit not awakening, till the beam
Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
'Twere better than the cold reality
Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
But should it be- that dream eternally
Continuing- as dreams have been to me
In my young boyhood- should it thus be given,
'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
For I have revell'd, when the sun was bright
I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light
And loveliness,- have left my very heart
In climes of my imagining, apart
From mine own home, with beings that have been
Of mine own thought- what more could I have seen?
'Twas once- and only once- and the wild hour
From my remembrance shall not pass- some power
Or spell had bound me- 'twas the chilly wind
Came o'er me in the night, and left behind
Its image on my spirit- or the moon
Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
Too coldly- or the stars- howe'er it was
That dream was as that night-wind- let it pass.
I have been happy, tho' in a dream.
I have been happy- and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life,
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality, which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love- and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
poem by Edgar Allan Poe
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I, John
(words & music by william j. gaither)
Oh well, i, john, he saw might numbers
A way up in the middle of the air
I, john he saw might numbers
Way in the middle of the air
Got to mighty move, john, you saw mighty numbers
Way up in the middle of the air
Well there were three gates in the east
And there were three gates in the west
Three gates in the north
Three gates in the south
And that makes twelve gates to the city all square wide
John, you saw might numbers way up in the middle of the air
Well john declared that he saw a man
He held twelve bright stars in his right hand
Well his eyes flashed fire like the burning sun
Old john got scared and he wanted to run
Well he wanted to run but his feet wouldnt go
Cause he felt the gospel cutting like a two-edged sword
And he heard a voice that said john, you take a look
And read what you see and then you write it in a book
And he saw twelve angels in the east
And there were twelve angels in the west
Twelve angels in the north,
Twelve angels in the south
Thats a total of forty-eight angels to the city, four squared wide
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eternal God And Loving Sustainer
Eternal Mighty God and Creator is our Loving Provider and Sustainer.
Everywhere on earth you can trod you find evidence of a Mighty God.
Mighty indeed with power from above and mightier is His Awesome Love.
God put to death His Only Seed, how can He not give us all we need?
Throughout your own life's pages you will find The Rock of All Ages.
He's there at every instance, for He spoke the world into existence.
He has always been Eternal God with Jesus and The Spirit at His side.
He gave us The Spirit to live inside to be our teacher and our guide.
Indeed God can be your provider and in eternally more ways than one.
First there's no way to deny it, He sent as a sacrifice His only Son.
God will provide all you need on earth to your death from your birth.
He provided us with new birth so we're not destroyed with the earth.
It is by Jesus, for whom all was made, that this earth is sustained.
The entire earth belongs to God, every spot where your foot may trod.
God gave you the breath of life and sustains you both day and night.
Not only you and I friend but the entire world from beginning to end.
To sustain you through Eternity God must first destroy your iniquity.
If Christ is not your desire, He'll preserve you in The Lake of Fire.
Sustained by God in a world of sin, imagine life as Eternity begins.
On the cross Christ set you free so He can sustain you in Eternity.
(Copyright ©03/2004)
Silence and Stealth of Days
Silence, and stealth of days! 'tis now
Since thou art gone,
Twelve hundred hours, and not a brow
But clouds hang on.
As he that in some cave's thick damp
Lockt from the light,
Fixeth a solitary lamp,
To brave the night,
And walking from his sun, when past
That glim'ring ray
Cuts through the heavy mists in haste
Back to his day,
So o'r fled minutes I retreat
Unto that hour
Which show'd thee last, but did defeat
Thy light, and power,
I search, and rack my soul to see
Those beams again,
But nothing but the snuff to me
Appeareth plain;
That dark and dead sleeps in its known
And common urn,
But those fled to their Maker's throne
There shine and burn;
O could I track them! but souls must
Track one the other,
And now the spirit, not the dust,
Must be thy brother.
Yet I have one Pearl by whose light
All things I see,
And in the heart of earth and night
Find heaven and thee.
poem by Henry Vaughan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Salvation Jane
One chain to the mountain
Two feet in the chain
Three fires approaching
Four hours away
A sol invictus the invicible sun
The night is almost come
Five times the assassin
Six species destroyed
Seven valleys are numbered
Eight years till they're gone
Just when I thought
I'd die on this rock
I see a face I know
Salvation Jane
Wild wild flower of love
Salvation Jane
You've got the power to change
You're such an easy prey
Nine times the protector
Ten years and a day
Eleventh hour we're facing
Twelve o'clock in the sun
Oh mother nature
We're trying to kill you
Such greedy fools
Salvation Jane
Wild wild flower of love
Salvation Jane
Wild wild flower of love
You've got the power to change
You're such an easy prey
Salvation Jane
Wild wild flower of love
Salvation Jane
You've got the power to change
You're such an easy prey
Thirteen grand designs
Fourteen you're walking the wire
Fifteen is when you're lonely
Sixteen is a long way there
Seventeen is a whisper
Eighteen is a whirl
Nineteen is a mother
Twenty minutes ago
Salvation Jane
Wild wild flower of love
Salvation Jane
Wild wild flower of love
Salvation Jane
You've got the power of love
Salvation Jane
You've got the power to change
You're such an easy prey
Salvation
Salvation
Salvation
Submitted by Michael Hack
song performed by by INXS
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Time And Life
I.
Time, thy name is sorrow, says the stricken
Heart of life, laid waste with wasting flame
Ere the change of things and thoughts requicken,
Time, thy name.
Girt about with shadow, blind and lame,
Ghosts of things that smite and thoughts that sicken
Hunt and hound thee down to death and shame.
Eyes of hours whose paces halt or quicken
Read in bloodred lines of loss and blame,
Writ where cloud and darkness round it thicken,
Time, thy name.
II.
Nay, but rest is born of me for healing,
- So might haply time, with voice represt,
Speak: is grief the last gift of my dealing?
Nay, but rest.
All the world is wearied, east and west,
Tired with toil to watch the slow sun wheeling,
Twelve loud hours of life's laborious quest.
Eyes forspent with vigil, faint and reeling,
Find at last my comfort, and are blest,
Not with rapturous light of life's revealing -
Nay, but rest.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Weather Maker
The Weather Maker reigns above, creating all weather we speak of,
The One and Only True Creator, from both the poles to the equator,
Over this planet that we call earth, He’s the Only One who can birth,
All the weather that men shall see, upon all the lands and every sea.
God alone hides the day’s light, with ominous clouds dark as night,
And whether it is snow, hail or rain, it is The Lord, Who does ordain,
All earth’s precipitation, as it falls, while, God’s mighty thunder rolls,
With piercing lights from the sky, as His lightning catches every eye.
All the winds blow where they may, whether it is the night or the day,
Winds blowing, as The Maker wills, as His purpose, The Lord fulfills,
God stirring up many angry waves, in an ocean that rants and raves,
Or moving wind on desert sands, creating dust storms on the lands.
Hurricane winds, by Him, are spawn, as their path, by God, is drawn,
With tornados, also cutting their path, from God’s destructive Wrath,
This as the very Finger of God, scores the very ground that we trod,
As The Lord God shows His Power, both day and night, at any hour.
This is The Creator, known by some, showing to all, what is to come,
Upon this earth, created by Him, that has been tainted, by man’s sin,
For soon, He’ll purge from this world, all of the evil, sin has unfurled,
Filling it with eternal joy and mirth, when our God makes a New Earth.
(Copyright ©05/2010)
The Crucifixion
Sunlight upon Judha's hills!
And on the waves of Galilee;
On Jordan's stream, and on the rills
That feed the dead and sleeping sea!
Most freshly from the green wood springs
The light breeze on its scented wings;
And gayly quiver in the sun
The cedar tops of Lebanon!
A few more hours,--a change hath come!
The sky is dark without a cloud!
The shouts of wrath and joy are dumb,
And proud knees unto earth are bowed.
A change is on the hill of Death,
The helmed watchers pant for breath,
And turn with wild and maniac eyes
From the dark scene of sacrifice!
That Sacrifice!--the death of Him,--
The Christ of God, the holy One!
Well may the conscious Heaven grow dim,
And blacken the beholding, Sun.
The wonted light hath fled away,
Night settles on the middle day,
And earthquake from his caverned bed
Is waking with a thrill of dread!
The dead are waking underneath!
Their prison door is rent away!
And, ghastly with the seal of death,
They wander in the eye of day!
The temple of the Cherubim,
The House of God is cold and dim;
A curse is on its trembling walls,
Its mighty veil asunder falls!
Well may the cavern-depths of Earth
Be shaken, and her mountains nod;
Well may the sheeted dead come forth
To see the suffering son of God!
Well may the temple-shrine grow dim,
And shadows veil the Cherubim,
When He, the chosen one of Heaven,
A sacrifice for guilt is given!
And shall the sinful heart, alone,
Behold unmoved the fearful hour,
When Nature trembled on her throne,
And Death resigned his iron power?
Oh, shall the heart--whose sinfulness
Gave keenness to His sore distress,
And added to His tears of blood--
Refuse its trembling gratitude!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dear love, good-night
DEAR love, good-night. And, tender sleep
,Seal up her lids like these drowsed flowers,
To make day fair when they unclose.
Be hushed around her, Night, and keep
Thy silent guard on her repose;
But speed thine hours.
Dear love, sleep on. This weary space
I wake and long for day and thee,
And count the slow stars from their west.
Sleep while I hunger for thy face,
Sleep, dearest, in unbroken rest;
But dream of me.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hail, Twilight, Sovereign Of One Peaceful Hour
HAIL Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour!
Not dull art Thou as undiscerning Night;
But studious only to remove from sight
Day's mutable distinctions.--Ancient Power!
Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower,
To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest
Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest
On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower
Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen
The self-same Vision which we now behold;
At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power! brought forth
These mighty barriers, and the gulf between;
The flood, the stars,--a spectacle as old
As the beginning of the heavens and earth!
poem by William Wordsworth
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I Feel the Joy
There is a day in the night
Within beautiful seeing
With the moon close and bright
In our heart times being
Every hour is staying
To times in night falling
As the wind outside´s playing
To the night and dark calling
I feel the joy within me
Where imaginary landscapes go
With the wings of heaven free
In the moonlight hours glow
Every depth has its touch
With its hours of purple sky
In the glow of heaven’s torch
As the nightfall again dies
(Chorus)
I feel the joy within me
Where imaginary landscapes go
With the wings of heaven free
In the moonlight hours glow
Nights and days are everything
In our finds and our waking
Every joy to the inside bring
With the colors of nature making
Every hour is staying
To times in night falling
As the wind outside´s playing
To the night and dark calling
(Chorus)
I feel the joy within me
Where imaginary landscapes go
With the wings of heaven free
In the moonlight hours glow
I feel the joy…
poem by Peter S. Quinn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Scenes In London I - Piccadilly
THE sun is on the crowded street,
It kindles those old towers;
Where England's noblest memories meet,
Of old historic hours.
Vast, shadowy, dark, and indistinct,
Tradition's giant fane,
Whereto a thousand years are linked,
In one electric chain.
So stands it when the morning light
First steals upon the skies;
And shadow'd by the fallen night,
The sleeping city lies.
It stands with darkness round it cast,
Touched by the first cold shine;
Vast, vague, and mighty as the past,
Of which it is the shrine.
'Tis lovely when the moonlight falls
Around the sculptured stone
Giving a softness to the walls,
Like love that mourns the gone.
Then comes the gentlest influence
The human heart can know,
The mourning over those gone hence
To the still dust below.
The smoke, the noise, the dust of day,
Have vanished from the scene;
The pale lamps gleam with spirit ray
O'er the park's sweeping green.
Sad shining on her lonely path,
The moon's calm smile above,
Seems as it lulled life's toil and wrath
With universal love.
Past that still hour, and its pale moon,
The city is alive;
It is the busy hour of noon,
When man must seek and strive.
The pressure of our actual life
Is on the waking brow;
Labour and care, endurance, strife,
These are around him now.
How wonderful the common street,
Its tumult and its throng,
The hurrying of the thousand feet
That bear life's cares along.
How strongly is the present felt,
With such a scene beside;
All sounds in one vast murmur melt
The thunder of the tide.
All hurry on—none pause to look
Upon another's face:
The present is an open book
None read, yet all must trace.
The poor man hurries on his race,
His daily bread to find;
The rich man has yet wearier chase,
For pleasure's hard to bind.
All hurry, though it is to pass
For which they live so fast—
What doth the present but amass,
The wealth that makes the past.
The past is round us—those old spires
That glimmer o'er our head;
Not from the present is their fires,
Their light is from the dead.
But for the past, the present's powers
Were waste of toil and mind;
But for those long and glorious hours
Which leave themselves behind.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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