Inscriptions In The Ground Of Coleorton, The Seat Of Sir George Beaumont, Bart., Leicestershire
THE embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine,
Will not unwillingly their place resign;
If but the Cedar thrive that near them stands,
Planted by Beaumont's and by 's hands.
One wooed the silent Art with studious pains:
These groves have heard the Other's pensive strains;
Devoted thus, their spirits did unite
By interchange of knowledge and delight.
May Nature's kindliest powers sustain the Tree,
And Love protect it from all injury!
And when its potent branches, wide out-thrown,
Darken the brow of this memorial Stone,
Here may some Painter sit in future days,
Some future Poet meditate his lays;
Not mindless of that distant age renowned
When Inspiration hovered o'er this ground,
The haunt of him who sang how spear and shield
In civil conflict met on Bosworth-field;
And of that famous Youth, full soon removed
From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self approved,
Fletcher's Associate, Jonson's Friend beloved.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Related quotes
Rainforest
(Sonnet To Tree Lovers)
How beautiful this place, we named “Cedar Haven”
Nestled in the foothills, on west slope of Mt Hood
A place inhabited by bear, deer, coyote and raven
A place where stands of old growth fir once stood
Should rain, wind or flood, dare come our way
Towering cedar trees surround, protect this land
Silent giants shade below, as happy children play
Come and gone, a hundred generations spanned
Rainforest undisturbed, forever does renew
Contributing to Earth’s health and balance
Reaching for the Sun, through skies of blue
Filters air we breathe, then oxygen enhanced
Protect forest land; take not trees for granted
Rewards abound for every seedling planted
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
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Aftermath
'The Tree Still Stands! '
Exclaimed the boy clasping his hands
To his Father who was walking the rear,
And to his Grandfather who was nowhere near.
For happy was He.
For standing there so straight and tall
Was the tree whose limbs He crawled
And the branches from which He played,
And the root where His head once laid.
And the many leaves.
Now the Father whom hearing His Son
Came to his side in a moment run
Then He stopped; for the tree He saw
Then the Father just stood in awe,
And uttered; 'my old friend'.
For standing there was His friend
From which before His youth was spent
By climbing and playing games,
And hiding under, from the cold and rain.
And the wind.
Then the Grandfather came strolling up
And He paused, in a moment hush
To reflect to a different year
When He was a Child, and He cried a tear.
And He clasped His hands.
For he was then again a Child
And then again He cried and smiled,
For He remembered His Father and He,
And how together they planted a tree.
And it still stands.
'Thank GOD the tree still stands! '
Cried the Grandfather clasping His hands.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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0321 From a drop, of gasolene
Did you notice
as you put the nozzle back in place
after filling your tank today,
a drop, of oil, of gasoline, of petrol
fell on the stained and stony ground?
did you hear – no, surely it couldn’t be –
the faintest sound then, almost
as if it came from somewhere on that ground?
It was my voice.
Millions, billions of years ago
I was a tree
reaching upward from the blessing of the soil
to the blessing of the sun
in silent worship of our nature
and the God who planned it thus
I grew, spread my branches wide in gratitude,
sang my silent song of praise,
grew old and died, with a sigh heard through the forest,
not of regret but of a life well lived
falling into God’s peace;
knowing that in His divine mercy
I had laid down my life
for future generations, in the perfection
of the cycle of all Creation.
The years passed; and mankind
in its desire to move further, faster, more often, cheaply, then
with the help of God’s mind in mankind's own mind, dreamed up
the automobile; and needed then its combustible life-blood,
this miracle liquid made before man named miracles
so as I lie, a dropp of gasoline catching the sun
or the harsh lights of gas-station forecourt
know this: my love for you
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Around the Acacia Tree
Vertical and pinnate, green leaves
And small flowers of yellow grow
Around the Acacia Tree.
Sun light drapes and the ground receives
The curtain's folding golden glow
Around the Acacia Tree.
The incense scent in the air weaves
The knitted root tangles below
Around the Acacia Tree.
Yet, now, from the bark, cloudy smoke
Lifts like a slumbering ghost awoke
Around the Acacia Tree.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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The Three Songs
The poet sang of a battle-field
Where doughty deeds were done,
Where stout blows rang on helm and shield
And a kingdom's fate was spun
With the scarlet thread of victory,
And honor from death's grim revelry
Like a flame-red flower was won!
So bravely he sang that all who heard
With the sting of the fight and the triumph were stirred,
And they cried, "Let us blazon his name on high,
He has sung a song that will never die!"
Again, full throated, he sang of fame
And ambition's honeyed lure,
Of the chaplet that garlands a mighty name,
Till his listeners fired with the god-like flame
To do, to dare, to endure!
The thirsty lips of the world were fain
The cup of glamor he vaunted to drain,
And the people murmured as he went by,
"He has sung a song that will never die !"
And once more he sang, all low and apart,
A song of the love that was born in his heart:
Thinking to voice in unfettered strain
Its sweet delight and its sweeter pain;
Nothing he cared what the throngs might say
Who passed him unheeding from day to day,
For he only longed with his melodies
The soul of the one beloved to please.
The song of war that he sang is as naught,
For the field and its heroes are long forgot,
And the song he sang of fame and power
Was never remembered beyond its hour!
Only to-day his name is known
By the song he sang apart and alone,
And the great world pauses with joy to hear
The notes that were strung for a lover's ear.
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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The Eyes of Swayambhu
Beloved poet 'Icchuk'!
On one of those days that have become history
a few days before you were killed
we are together - you and I
and with a pair of underground hands
you had scribbled a couple of sleepless dreams
at this very place
where, under the eyes of Swambhu
I am at present
seeking for those days
albeit in recollections!
Beloved poet 'Icchuk'!
When the news of your murder
reached villages and counties
like a momentous storm
the eyelashes of all seekers of a bright sky
were simultaneously soaked
and villages, tired of scarcities
wept along with me.
Papers sold more copies
for carrying the news of your demise.
The hapless people wept at your end
until their tears gathered to form a Gandaki -
yes, they were the same people
whose future you are seeking
even after your demise
the way people search for saligrams
in Kaligandaki.
Children sang mourning songs.
Beloved poet 'Icchuk'!
All these happened at the news of your murder!
A day after your murder
I asked the keen eyes of Swayambhu
whether a sun
with an old bag
and a lean body
roamed around, thither
as it did a day or so
earlier in the past.
I asked further
if a moon with sweet dreams
came that way, or not.
Have you seen
the foot marks of his murder?
Mounted on the top of this hill
did you recognize
the corpse of my beloved poet?
Tell o, the great eyes of Swayambhu!
You were, for sure a witness,
when my beloved poet was killed.
Did you ever see him around?
©
poem by Matrika Pokharel
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If Nature Survives
Once upon a time dense forest
Now stands open field with no trees to rest
No green branches and no noise of birds
It has become rare chance for melody to be heard
Where has our cuckoo gone?
Why has she deserted morning tune?
What have we done to her go in exile?
I thought she has lost her refuge for a while
The sparrows have disappeared too
Quite in numbers could be seen through
In window hole or in little hide out
They were happily seen to be heard about
They have gone too and become extinct
Probably to far off places and in interior districts
Now villages too have adopted same way
Little trees and forest is done away
You find no crows, owls or eagles
Sky is seen barren and no formation of love triangles
Nature has turned off its kind eye
Not enough of birds could be seen to fly
Deforestation is on rise and on high side
Gap is apparent and looks very wide
We are doing enough of damage to wild culture
As if we have taken out right control for future
Who to be blamed for this outrageous act?
Earth has tolerated it but so far refused to react
Of late natural calamities are on rise
It may spring anytime big surprise
Large population insects and birds stay in forest
It is their birth place and permanent refuge for rest
We need not disturb ecological balance
Let each tree cut be replaced by more to make it dense
If nature survives we survive too
In defiance we fell apart and disintegrate too
No one can survive long its absence
Nature is our mother and real essence
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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I'm An Old Tree
Here is my beloved home
I'm an old tree
I grew up here
Here's where I belong
Here's the only place
Where I can face
In rough human race
Inspite of all difficulties and aches
Still I'm standing here
Here I've planted love seeds
I'm like an old trees
Don't take me off my root
My branches revive and sigh here
Since thousands and thousands of years
I'm an old tree that's living here
Inside these fields I've grew old
My branches and my leaves
Once they've born here
The only place they've been
How can I leave
I have memories here
All my childhood years
My desires and all my dreams
Are planted right here within
These fields I've born and ill live in
poem by Sossi Khachadourian
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On Tree
Just a plain old TREE. I Ignored the weather
satisfied with me. I Looked at TREE.
What if anything do I knoe about TREE.
It used to be a thing made out of wood, always tall,
with branches near the ground. Roots fingering the ground.
Life comes up somehow to TREE. Water cascades down to ground, seeping slowly into ROOT. ROOT transmogrifies
the water into inner sanctum stuff known only to the Lord.
People still tell me, Tree just cannot live.
There is no real feeling in TREE.
There is knowledge in TREE or it would be a blade of grass.
People say the life is in the seed or sapiling.
I think the knowledge is in the MAN, the ONE who can.
He Makes all the TREE begin, upon a distant planet,
Creates the thing again, in the courtyard of his KING.
And every meadow of his earth.
The ONE who gave me birthe the second time around.
The ONE who gave me TREE.
And Time to write this down.
poem by Charles Hice
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Rose poem for was it Fran
The rose
you may colour it yourself
sang for many days
about God
for those who would listen
then fading and dying
or so it might appear
sang to a passing poet
who found a place for it
and the rose spent the winter
blooming in his poem
while the poet sang
about God
until the next year came around
when the rose
took up the song again
while the poem faded a little
but did not die
[*who didn't like the colour of the rose in the other poem]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Future Babies
A flower stands erect upon the stem.
Odd:
It bears the naked flesh of many men –
Pulsing, writhing, arteries humming;
Androgenic fluids chase their channels
To the ground, caking at a mound
Of naked girls, who pout in doubt and
Hurl their rabid glares from eyes
That catch the light of want
And desperation.
Sighs:
They know the separation
Stays their open legs
From bursting cocks.
Masturbation of the mind
Is all they need –
They’re in the docks of
Fate:
The evil Overpopulation’s out to feed
Their thund’rous urge to procreate!
Forget the conjugation, just for once?
Bag the bulbous tits in bras.
I know they want the tongue on c*nts;
But focus! Where’s the room to live?
And think about the future babies.
THINK:
You know they won’t forgive
Your selfish drive to suck, to shag.
The Dying Age of Man will drag
Him down to disappear.
So keep the girls away from sperm –
Don’t let the men up there!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
Future future future future future future, where's the future?
Future future future future future future, where?
Future future future future future future,
Future future future future future future, where's the future?
Future future future future future future, HERE!
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Blind Is One, Who Said Love Is Blind!
Love is such great,
They say love is blind,
One who believe this,
is a blind for sure
As Love sees something,
Which mortal eyes fail to see!
Love can see great things,
Where even wise fail to find,
Love is eternal and is infinite,
And it is boon from infinite,
Love knows to give smile,
and not to take, great is that love which sacrifice,
Even Love for love's sake!
Love says,
' go my love, here you suffer,
Can't see your face dried by gloom,
Go somewhere,
where you can bloom,
or else I go somewhere to save our love '!
Love is that great, always grateful to love,
Great to be loved,
Even The Almighty,
bow before that love,
Which can flow as pure as mountain ice melt!
Great poet sang,
'With the Beloved's water of life,
no illness remains
In the Beloved's rose garden of
union, no thorn remains.
They say there is a window
from one heart to another
How can there be a window
where no wall remains? '
And inspired heart sings,
No water required,
As nothing can dry,
The roses of love,
And love is the bed of rose,
To that pair two bodies,
one in love, one wipes the pain of another!
Souls union makes everything possible,
it may look like
perfume bed of roses,
even if full of thorns
Rose is that heart,
Which even swallows pains,
When two souls become one,
All walls fall, all pains fail,
Fair their heart feel,
When two pair of hands wipe tears of one another!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Remote Beauty
What glory the unseen flower knows
A lost and lovely lilly, or a wild red rose -
Whom the site shall see
Down unfrequented trail, under the tall pine tree.
Transcendence planted by God's own hand
Deep within a withdrawn wilderness land -
None 'cept angels such beauty shall observe
In removed regions where only the wind is heard.
Beauty is shone in vain
When none seek it fain -
It takes the words of a lingering poet
To truly notice, and to show it.
Around the moon floats a glimmering ring
Listen to the heart, and you will hear it sing -
The stars cheerfully join in
As night enters the desert, once again.
Remote vision beauty will show
A day in nature, such depth to know -
Sunrise to sunset
So much to see, coming yet.
It looks for all the unnoticing world
Like simply a night and a day - but, what it regards
Is Life on earth, with
Heaven upon its way.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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An Old Tree Listens To The Tumult Of Distant Storms?
'And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass.'
-Ezra Pound, American,1885-1972
That flamboyant tree
gave us shade,
Remember once
Under the burning Sun.
But now the branches
fall often?
Flowers never bloom,
So how do you expect
sweet fruits?
Birds changed their usual route
for better orchards.
And the hollow tree shivers
even to a small drizzle.
Though the tree dreams of a refuge
unless the friendly termites
does anybody interests of an old barren tree?
to my West bengal poet friend Pranab!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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What Lies Ahead
It was a windy day that day
But the apple still fell near its tree
The clock struck zero
A cry filled the room
A son of the past
The father of the future
The distance between two feet
As the clock ticked life away
The ground was opened each day
And seeds dropped quietly in it
Days came and walked away
With the same plot and stale tale
All looked upon the future
Wondering what glory lied ahead
Will I walk on the sky or ask the ground to bury me?
The clock delivered the future as he promised
Each got a basket of past deeds returned
The acorn became a mighty oak
It was a windy day that day
Yet the apple refused to fall far from the tree
All that had gone around
Came around to say hello
The future was here and held glory for some
The future was here and turned off the lights of others
The future is the past hidden in a seed
Today is tomorrow
What do you want to lie ahead?
Dig your ground
Drop your seed
Stand your ground
It will be a windy day that day
But your apple will fall right in your life
And when all you've done around
Comes around to say hello
You'd firmly shake their hands
And say, I've been waiting for you
My whole life long, welcome.
poem by Jenim Dibie
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The Four Ages Of The World
The goblet is sparkling with purpled-tinged wine,
Bright glistens the eye of each guest,
When into the hall comes the Minstrel divine,
To the good he now brings what is best;
For when from Elysium is absent the lyre,
No joy can the banquet of nectar inspire.
He is blessed by the gods, with an intellect clear,
That mirrors the world as it glides;
He has seen all that ever has taken place here,
And all that the future still hides.
He sat in the god's secret councils of old
And heard the command for each thing to unfold.
He opens in splendor, with gladness and mirth,
That life which was hid from our eyes;
Adorns as a temple the dwelling of earth,
That the Muse has bestowed as his prize,
No roof is so humble, no hut is so low,
But he with divinities bids it o'erflow.
And as the inventive descendant of Zeus,
On the unadorned round of the shield,
With knowledge divine could, reflected, produce
Earth, sea, and the star's shining field,--
So he, on the moments, as onward they roll,
The image can stamp of the infinite whole.
From the earliest age of the world he has come,
When nations rejoiced in their prime;
A wanderer glad, he has still found a home
With every race through all time.
Four ages of man in his lifetime have died,
And the place they once held by the fifth is supplied.
Saturnus first governed, with fatherly smile,
Each day then resembled the last;
Then flourished the shepherds, a race without guile
Their bliss by no care was o'ercast,
They loved,--and no other employment they had,
And earth gave her treasures with willingness glad.
Then labor came next, and the conflict began
With monsters and beasts famed in song;
And heroes upstarted, as rulers of man,
And the weak sought the aid of the strong.
And strife o'er the field of Scamander now reigned,
But beauty the god of the world still remained.
At length from the conflict bright victory sprang,
And gentleness blossomed from might;
In heavenly chorus the Muses then sang,
And figures divine saw the light;--
The age that acknowledged sweet phantasy's sway
Can never return, it has fleeted away.
The gods from their seats in the heavens were hurled,
And their pillars of glory o'erthrown;
And the Son of the Virgin appeared in the world
For the sins of mankind to atone.
The fugitive lusts of the sense were suppressed,
And man now first grappled with thought in his breast.
Each vain and voluptuous charm vanished now,
Wherein the young world took delight;
The monk and the nun made of penance a vow,
And the tourney was sought by the knight.
Though the aspect of life was now dreary and wild,
Yet love remained ever both lovely and mild.
An altar of holiness, free from all stain,
The Muses in silence upreared;
And all that was noble and worthy, again
In woman's chaste bosom appeared;
The bright flame of song was soon kindled anew
By the minstrel's soft lays, and his love pure and true.
And so, in a gentle and ne'er-changing band,
Let woman and minstrel unite;
They weave and they fashion, with hand joined to hand,
The girdle of beauty and right.
When love blends with music, in unison sweet,
The lustre of life's youthful days ne'er can fleet.
poem by Friedrich Schiller
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A Winter Walk
WE never had believed, I wis,
At primrose time when west winds stole
Like thoughts of youth across the soul,
In such an altered time as this,
When if one little flower did peep
Up through the brown and sullen grass,
We should just look on it, and pass
As if we saw it in our sleep.
Feeling as sure as that this ray
Which cottage children call the sun,
Colors the pale clouds one by one,--
Our touch would make it drop to clay.
We never could have looked, in prime
Of April, or when July trees
Shook full-leaved in the evening bree
Upon the face of this pale time,
Still, soft, familiar; shining bleak
On naked branches, sodden ground,
Yet shining--as if one had found
A smile upon a dead friend's cheek,
Or old friend, lost for years, had strange
In altered mien come sudden back,
Confronting us with our great lack--
Till loss seemed far less sad than change.
Yet though, alas! Hope did not see
This winter skeleton through full leaves,
Out of all bareness Faith perceives
Possible life in field and tree.
In bough and trunk the sap will move,
And the mould break o'er springing flowers;
Nature revives with all her powers,
But only nature;--never love.
So, listlessly with linkèd hands
Both Faith and Hope glide soft away;
While in long shadows, cool and gray,
The sun sets o'er the barren lands.
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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A Poet's Life
A Poet's life is:
A whole day of inspiration,
Coupled with a lot of observation,
A poet is not right,
And not wrong,
They have foresight and don't prolong,
A poet is neutral at all times,
They are the past, present and future,
Possess knowledge of culture,
And in a way is a teacher,
So there you have it,
All summed up as one,
A Poet's Life. My work here is done!
The 'secret' of their being up in the tree had continued for almost two years now. Where the thick trunk branched out near the top, the two could sit comfortably. Michiko, straddling one branch, leaned back against another. There were days when little birds came and days when the wind sang through the pine needles. Although they weren't that high off the ground, these two little lovers felt as if they were in a completely different world, far away from the earth.
Yasunari Kawabata in Up in the Tree
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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No stoppage by any none
No stoppage by any one
The world is open and field ground
So many opportunities and chances are found
Any chance on the way must be grabbed
Old or youth, child or blind must not be robbed
How long we may take oath under falsehood?
When we have nothing to eat as food?
We have made the earth as hell
What is there now to claim nothing is well?
The Sun was reality, is today and may remain
We must tap the sources and try to gain
What afternoon will help us merely by observing?
When we are lazy, opportunists and not deserving?
Look around, see the trend and wave the hand
You make turn hostile environment as friend
Create lot many places to turn the tide
The horizon and place is open and wide
The world is definitely a place to venture
Dash against odd and secure the tenure
See that earth belt is torn apart and cultivated
All chances for failures are eliminated
I wish it to become level playing field
Each one is having no secured shield
This will prompt them to rise above level
You may realize then that there is no hindrance to excel
Tap the energy and harness it for proper use
See that youth is oriented for all crises to defuse
Go from one end to another one
As sky is the limit and no stoppage by any one
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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