En.Citatepedia^®.ro

To M.H.

Our walk was far among the ancient trees:
There was no road, nor any woodman's path;
But a thick umbrage--checking the wild growth
Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf
Beneath the branches--of itself had made
A track, that brought us to a slip of lawn,
And a small bed of water in the woods.
All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink
On its firm margin, even as from a well,
Or some stone-basin which the herdsman's hand
Had shaped for their refreshment; nor did sun,
Or wind from any quarter, ever come,
But as a blessing to this calm recess,
This glade of water and this one green field.
The spot was made by Nature for herself;
The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain
Unknown to them; but it is beautiful;
And if a man should plant his cottage near,
Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees,
And blend its waters with his daily meal,
He would so love it, that in his death-hour
Its image would survive among his thoughts:
And therefore, my sweet MARY, this still Nook,
With all its beeches, we have named from You!

poem by William Wordsworth
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To Jane: The Recollection

I.
Now the last day of many days,
All beautiful and bright as thou,
The loveliest and the last, is dead,
Rise, Memory, and write its praise!
Up,--to thy wonted work! come, trace
The epitaph of glory fled,--
For now the Earth has changed its face,
A frown is on the Heaven’s brow.

II.
We wandered to the Pine Forest
That skirts the Ocean’s foam,
The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.
The whispering waves were half asleep,
The clouds were gone to play,
And on the bosom of the deep
The smile of Heaven lay;
It seemed as if the hour were one
Sent from beyond the skies,
Which scattered from above the sun
A light of Paradise.

III.
We paused amid the pines that stood
The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
As serpents interlaced;
And, soothed by every azure breath,
That under Heaven is blown,
To harmonies and hues beneath,
As tender as its own,
Now all the tree-tops lay asleep,
Like green waves on the sea,
As still as in the silent deep
The ocean woods may be.

IV.
How calm it was!—the silence there
By such a chain was bound
That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller by her sound
The inviolable quietness;
The breath of peace we drew
With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew.
There seemed from the remotest seat
Of the white mountain waste,
To the soft flower beneath our feet,
A magic circle traced,--
A spirit interfused around
A thrilling, silent life,--
To momentary peace it bound
Our mortal nature’s strife;
And still I felt the centre of
The magic circle there
Was one fair form that filled with love
The lifeless atmosphere.

V.
We paused beside the pools that lie
Under the forest bough,--
Each seemed as ’twere a little sky
Gulfed in a world below;
A firmament of purple light
Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night,
And purer than the day--
In which the lovely forests grew,
As in the upper air,
More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any spreading there.
There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn,
And through the dark green wood
The white sun twinkling like the dawn
Out of a speckled cloud.
Sweet views which in our world above
Can never well be seen,
Were imaged by the water’s love
Of that fair forest green.
And all was interfused beneath
With an Elysian glow,
An atmosphere without a breath,
A softer day below.
Like one beloved the scene had lent
To the dark water’s breast,
Its every leaf and lineament
With more than truth expressed;
Until an envious wind crept by,
Like an unwelcome thought,
Which from the mind’s too faithful eye
Blots one dear image out.
Though thou art ever fair and kind,
The forests ever green,
Less oft is peace in Shelley’s mind,
Than calm in waters, seen.

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Whispering Wind

Standing amid the forest trees
I feel so insignificant.
Small and unimportant can be
Very humbling among the plants
And underbrush that are dwarfed by
The regal, deciduous trees.
Quiet is defined by the sigh
Of the wind breathing through the leaves
And serenity thrives beneath
This lushest leaf-green canopy.
I walk along an ancient path
Once tread by aborigines.
Then, out of the blue, the soft wind
Whispered, ” you're home again my friend.”

poem by Albert Ahearn
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Plant More Trees

Plant more trees
As it looks green
And save the homes of the animals please.

Plant more trees
As it looks green
To keep the humans safe
From pollution and disease.

Plant more trees
As it looks green
To keep the cities beautiful and clean.
And throw the garbage into a dustbin.

Stop cutting trees
And plant more trees
For a long live of you and me!

poem by Srijita Das
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In The Shade Of The Green Wood

In the shade of the green wood
The holly does grow,
While in soft rays of sunlight
The wild roses glow,
And I smell their sweet perfume
That gently floats by,
Past trees strong and mighty
That reach to the sky,
The pathway of gold autumn
Leaves still remain,
As I walk through the green wood again.

In the shade of the green wood
This bright sunny morn,
That's so cool in the shadows
A new day is born,
All the birds in the treetops
Are singing for me,
Sweet songs of the summer
Which fill me with glee,
And know from its beauty
I never shall part,
For the green wood does live in my heart.

In the shade of the green wood
A soft gentle breeze,
Now caresses the branches
And whispers through trees,
A sound reassuring
Shall carry me to,
All the scenes that exist
In each marvellous view,
It's here that my spirit
Shall always now stay,
And the green wood is guiding my way.

poem by Andrew Blakemore
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A Camel's Dream

When he deserted me
I deserted water
When I deserted the water,
it lost its shine crying.
Trees were growing dark in their places
in the woods; that evening he came to take me
with him clearing the thick glow of the sunset hues
then came he to make a path a kind of road
At the end of the road
I became the back he can ride
deserting many things I so long have to long for
while I look at the village
through those green trees
with my deep eyes
I saw him waiving at me
to bid me goodbye.
I was already entering the desert
and a portion of his road became the whole
the entire road for me.
For the borders of the nation he ruled
were the horizons of the four directions,
the sand hills I walk on with him on my back
were always the initial spot I had departed.
Numerous mornings and evenings met
on the rooftops of the sandhills where the
next morning and the sun crossed.
Originally what he wanted from me
was some amount of water he could use,
always in the shape of the water
I obeyed him.
At the same speed as the sunlight speedy
falls on the ground, stars fell.
With the power of the star-falls
the water soaked itself down to the ground
and then to
the roots of the sands.
Whenever his forehead shined
with full of heavenly words
and thirstied,
I dug up the roots of the sands
where the water gathers and kept it
in my body.

When the sun rose,
everything except the sands were
under the power of the sun;
when the wind blew,
everything along with the sands were
under the windy flows.
There I took out the water from my body
and washed his dry face.
When he loved me
I had a large amount of waters.
When he was communicating with someone
in heavens,
I listened to the music the sands were making.
Many trees were there with no shadows,
and the worlds I look through those trees were
always moving forward.
Through those trees the wind blew.
The thicket-bushes were weeping
and there came about some animals
who loved the bushes, and the one
who rides on my back
lets things to be ruled ruled
lets things to die dead.
He stands the trees and the animals
that resemble each other on their spots
then he passes by.
In the mean time he took out the water
from my body numerous times
and drank it to cleanse his body.
His songs made the sand hills
create echoes to echo
to ring through the regions afar.

When he finally changed the desert into the sea,
at its open entrance
I began to grow old all alone.
Though I wanted to serve him on the sea
he walked away from me
onto the sea.
Many years have gone by
and come along and
for me not to serve him on the sea
meant to go back to the desert, and
the sea had turned into the desert back again.
At its entrance to the sea,
I could not become a small boat for him.
All day long, I was lonely;
all night long, lonesome for days.
When he left me, I deserted the water,
I deserted again the act of deserting
and by deserting it, I no longer was left
to exist.

poem by by unknown author (22 June 2003), translated by Sangnam Nam
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The Den o' Fowlis

Beautiful Den o' Fowlis, most charming to be seen
In the summer season, when your trees are green;
Especially in the bright and clear month of June,
When your flowere and shrubberies are in full bloom.

There visitors can enjoy themselves during the holidays,
And be shaded by the trees from the sun's rays,
And admire the beautiful primroses that grow there;
And inhale their sweet perfume that fills the air.

There the little children sport and play,
Blythe and gay during the live-long summer day,
In its beautiful green and cool shady bowers,
Chasing the bee and butterfly, and pulling the flowers.

There the Minnows loup and play;
In the little rivulet all the day;
Right in the hollow of that fairy-like Den,
Together in little shoals of nine or ten

And the Mavis and Blackbird merrily sing,
Making the Den with their notes to ring;
From high noon till sunset at night,
Filling the visitor's heart with delight.

Tis most lovely to see the trees arched overhead,
And the little rivulet rolling o'er its pebbly bed,
Ane near by is an old Meal Mill;
Likewise an old Church and Churchyard where the dead lie still.

The Den is always cool in the summer time,
Because it is so closely shaded from the sunshine,
By the spreading branches of the trees,
While the murmuring of the rivulet is heard on the night breeze.

It is a very magnificent spot the Den o' Fowlis,
And where oft the wintry wind it howls,
Among its bare end leafless withered trees,
And with fear wonld almost make one's heart to freeze.

To be walking through it on a dark wintry night,
Because the bare trees seem like spectres to your sight,
And everything around seems dark and drear,
And fills the timid mind with an undefinable fear.

But in the summer season it is most lovely to see;
With its fair flowers and romantic scenery,
Where the people can enjoy themselves all the day,
In the months of July, June, or May.

There the people can drink pure water when they are dry;
From the wells of spring water in the Den near by,
Which God has provided for his creatures in that lonely spot,
And such a blessing to the people shouldn't be forgot.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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The Summer Bower

It is a place whither I've often gone
For peace, and found it, secret, hushed, and cool,
A beautiful recess in neighboring woods.
Trees of the soberest hues, thick-leaved and tall,
Arch it o'erhead and column it around,
Framing a covert, natural and wild,
Domelike and dim; though nowhere so enclosed
But that the gentlest breezes reach the spot
Unwearied and unweakened. Sound is here
A transient and unfrequent visitor;
Yet if the day be calm, not often then,
Whilst the high pines in one another's arms
Sleep, you may sometimes with unstartled ear
Catch the far fall of voices, how remote
You know not, and you do not care to know.
The turf is soft and green, but not a flower
Lights the recess, save one, star-shaped and bright --
I do not know its name -- which here and there
Gleams like a sapphire set in emerald.
A narrow opening in the branched roof,
A single one, is large enough to show,
With that half glimpse a dreamer loves so much,
The blue air and the blessing of the sky.
Thither I always bent my idle steps,
When griefs depressed, or joys disturbed my heart,
And found the calm I looked for, or returned
Strong with the quiet rapture in my soul.
But one day,
One of those July days when winds have fled
One knows not whither, I, most sick in mind
With thoughts that shall be nameless, yet, no doubt,
Wrong, or at least unhealthful, since though dark
With gloom, and touched with discontent, they had
No adequate excuse, nor cause, nor end,
I, with these thoughts, and on this summer day,
Entered the accustomed haunt, and found for once
No medicinal virtue.
Not a leaf
Stirred with the whispering welcome which I sought,
But in a close and humid atmosphere,
Every fair plant and implicated bough
Hung lax and lifeless. Something in the place,
Its utter stillness, the unusual heat,
And some more secret influence, I thought,
Weighed on the sense like sin. Above I saw,
Though not a cloud was visible in heaven,
The pallid sky look through a glazed mist
Like a blue eye in death.
The change, perhaps,
Was natural enough; my jaundiced sight,
The weather, and the time explain it all:
Yet have I drawn a lesson from the spot,
And shrined it in these verses for my heart.
Thenceforth those tranquil precincts I have sought
Not less, and in all shades of various moods;
But always shun to desecrate the spot
By vain repinings, sickly sentiments,
Or inconclusive sorrows. Nature, though
Pure as she was in Eden when her breath
Kissed the white brow of Eve, doth not refuse,
In her own way and with a just reserve,
To sympathize with human suffering;
But for the pains, the fever, and the fret
Engendered of a weak, unquiet heart,
She hath no solace; and who seeks her when
These be the troubles over which he moans,
Reads in her unreplying lineaments
Rebukes, that, to the guilty consciousness,
Strike like contempt.

poem by Henry Timrod
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The Sundew

A LITTLE marsh-plant, yellow green,
And pricked at lip with tender red.
Tread close, and either way you tread
Some faint black water jets between
Lest you should bruise the curious head.

A live thing maybe; who shall know?
The summer knows and suffers it;
For the cool moss is thick and sweet
Each side, and saves the blossom so
That it lives out the long June heat.

The deep scent of the heather burns
About it; breathless though it be,
Bow down and worship; more than we
Is the least flower whose life returns,
Least weed renascent in the sea.

We are vexed and cumbered in earth’s sight
With wants, with many memories;
These see their mother what she is,
Glad-growing, till August leave more bright
The apple-coloured cranberries.

Wind blows and bleaches the strong grass,
Blown all one way to shelter it
From trample of strayed kine, with feet
Felt heavier than the moorhen was,
Strayed up past patches of wild wheat.

You call it sundew: how it grows,
If with its colour it have breath,
If life taste sweet to it, if death
Pain its soft petal, no man knows:
Man has no sight or sense that saith.

My sundew, grown of gentle days,
In these green miles the spring begun
Thy growth ere April had half done
With the soft secret of her ways
Or June made ready for the sun.

O red-lipped mouth of marsh-flower,
I have a secret halved with thee.
The name that is love’s name to me
Thou knowest, and the face of her
Who is my festival to see.

The hard sun, as thy petals knew,
Coloured the heavy moss-water:
Thou wert not worth green midsummer
Nor fit to live to August blue,
O sundew, not remembering her.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Pine Forest Of The Cascine Near Pisa

Dearest, best and brightest,
Come away,
To the woods and to the fields!
Dearer than this fairest day
Which, like thee to those in sorrow,
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
To the rough Year just awake
In its cradle in the brake.
The eldest of the Hours of Spring,
Into the Winter wandering,
Looks upon the leafless wood,
And the banks all bare and rude;
Found, it seems, this halcyon Morn
In February’s bosom born,
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,
Kissed the cold forehead of the Earth,
And smiled upon the silent sea,
And bade the frozen streams be free;
And waked to music all the fountains,
And breathed upon the rigid mountains,
And made the wintry world appear
Like one on whom thou smilest, Dear.

Radiant Sister of the Day,
Awake! arise! and come away!
To the wild woods and the plains,
To the pools where winter rains
Image all the roof of leaves,
Where the pine its garland weaves
Sapless, gray, and ivy dun
Round stems that never kiss the sun--
To the sandhills of the sea,
Where the earliest violets be.

Now the last day of many days,
All beautiful and bright as thou,
The loveliest and the last, is dead,
Rise, Memory, and write its praise!
And do thy wonted work and trace
The epitaph of glory fled;
For now the Earth has changed its face,
A frown is on the Heaven’s brow.

We wandered to the Pine Forest
That skirts the Ocean's foam,
The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.

The whispering waves were half asleep,
The clouds were gone to play,
And on the woods, and on the deep
The smile of Heaven lay.

It seemed as if the day were one
Sent from beyond the skies,
Which shed to earth above the sun
A light of Paradise.

We paused amid the pines that stood,
The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
With stems like serpents interlaced.

How calm it was--the silence there
By such a chain was bound,
That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller by her sound

The inviolable quietness;
The breath of peace we drew
With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew.

It seemed that from the remotest seat
Of the white mountain's waste
To the bright flower beneath our feet,
A magic circle traced;--

A spirit interfused around,
A thinking, silent life;
To momentary peace it bound
Our mortal nature’s strife;--

And still, it seemed, the centre of
The magic circle there,
Was one whose being filled with love
The breathless atmosphere.

Were not the crocuses that grew
Under that ilex-tree
As beautiful in scent and hue
As ever fed the bee?

We stood beneath the pools that lie
Under the forest bough,
And each seemed like a sky
Gulfed in a world below;

A purple firmament of light
Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night,
And clearer than the day—

In which the massy forests grew
As in the upper air,
More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any waving there.

Like one beloved the scene had lent
To the dark water's breast
Its every leaf and lineament
With that clear truth expressed;

There lay far glades and neighbouring lawn,
And through the dark green crowd
The white sun twinkling like the dawn
Under a speckled cloud.

Sweet views, which in our world above
Can never well be seen,
Were imaged by the water's love
Of that fair forest green.

And all was interfused beneath
With an Elysian air,
An atmosphere without a breath,
A silence sleeping there.

Until a wandering wind crept by,
Like an unwelcome thought,
Which from my mind's too faithful eye
Blots thy bright image out.

For thou art good and dear and kind,
The forest ever green,
But less of peace in S---'s mind,
Than calm in waters, seen.

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Firwood

The fir trees taper into twigs and wear
The rich blue green of summer all the year,
Softening the roughest tempest almost calm
And offering shelter ever still and warm
To the small path that towels underneath,
Where loudest winds--almost as summer's breath--
Scarce fan the weed that lingers green below
When others out of doors are lost in frost and snow.
And sweet the music trembles on the ear
As the wind suthers through each tiny spear,
Makeshifts for leaves; and yet, so rich they show,
Winter is almost summer where they grow.

poem by John Clare
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United We Rise

Old man cried- let’s go fetch some water
grab a pail in each hand and let’s go.
Very far, to the pond in the holler,
then we’ll quench our thirst with that water!

Everyone today has forgotten
what it’s like to haul water in a pail.
Every farmer now has a pride,
that he has a watery pool, as well.

Oh City Riders! -You must have a green lawn
to keep it looking really good!
The water you waste on that green grass
could be used by the farmer to grow food.

Don’t waste all of that precious water.
We have worked too hard to harness here.
We can’t live without that precious water
let’s be thankful that it is so near.

Don’t be taking the water from the farmer
without it his crops will never grow.
All of life depends upon the water
Don’t take it for granted anymore.

You live on our labour on land,
Can’t you spare your comfort
With a pure and just thought
That’ll yield a greenery band.

The committee today we did shape
And resolved not to be parted with,
The little drops of water that came
From the earth beneath.

United we rise, Divided we fall,
Water- must we conserve
Before it is let go diverge
Lest anything may befall.

We vowed to rotation of crop
Mother earth can sleep quite,
And remain fertile and sharp
Keeping the rest happy and delight.

Revolutions after Revolutions
White, Blue and Green,
The Rainbow we started
Has garlanded all that’ll ever shine.

poem by Pradeep Mohanty
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A Tramp On The Street

The snowflakes fell
like white feathers from heaven
leaving a white blanket on the ground.
He trudged through the lonely streets
with nowhere to go.
A tramp on the street
with only rags to cover his feet,
trying to find a place to sleep
and rest his weary bones.

He passed a frozen river,
it made his cold body shiver
for he could see a pair of hand raise up held
and hear a small voice as it yelled.
Without a moment hesitation,
though barely nothing on his feet
he started to walk
across the sharp iced water
even though the wind fiercely blew.

He had to reach the child
that had fallen through.
He moved as fast as he could
although he was almost crippled.
Reaching down he plucked the child
from the dark waters cold
as the wind blew fierce and wild.
He moved slowly to the shore
as a silent rain began to pour.

Finding shelter beneath some trees
covered the child in what
dry clothes he had.
He forgot about his feet that hurt
as he covers the child
with his ragged coat and shirt.
He made sure the child was warm
before he laid himself to rest.
The child later awoke to find
the tramp stiff and blue
within his snowy bed.

There is no moral to this story
of why one ill treated by society
would willingly forfit his life
so that an unknown child would live.
We can only ponder on the thoughts
that went through his head
as he laid himself down to sleep
on that snowy bed.

12 January 2008

poem by David Harris
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The Mighty Waterfall

Somewhere high up, mountain above,
Wild streamlets born, race down madly:
The landscape matching- one will love!
Becomes a waterfall gladly!

What looks small, inconspicuous,
And starts off in grave-like silence,
Is water-cascade, thunderous-
Providing water, chill and dense.

This marvel of nature is great-
An awesome treat to eyes and ears;
In contrast to the world, we hate-
In maze of which we’re caught for years!

The gorgeous scene looks heavenly,
With verdure green of trees uphill;
With brown and slate-grey stone mossy,
As noisy waters race to rill.

The place looks beautiful indeed,
With inherent dangers that lurk;
The fleeting time, no one will heed;
While waking downhill to the park!

What wonders, Nature unravels!
The mind of chaos has turned calm;
The human heart always marvels,
When mighty waters touch our palm!

Copyright by Dr John Celes 8-19-2007

poem by John Celes
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A Stone Sits A Stone

Long oft towards
Where the sun light comes
Under the cover by an old cedar tree
Rest a stone upon a stone
There in a side of a hill
In wavering woods
Waters flow to the valley floor
How you sit
And tended your thoughts
Still, and motionless
Quiet enough to blend with the stone
Listen to the green woods
Beneath the freshing winds
Grows strong sorrow sleeps
Swarms of living life
And passion grows hungry
To the task of lovers lips

poem by Howard Johnson
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A Place Of Romantic Mood!

Romantic mood comes whenever we see a park!
One such park is a centre of attraction in our town;
Green lawn all around the park with open space wide
And trees with wide branches giving shade make it
A romantic place for lovers and tourists to enjoy here!
The parks of this kind I have seen in hill stations where
The climate is a plus point for tourists’ attraction there!
Varieties of flowers of different colours and fragrance
And fountains ejecting high up water give thrilling joy!
Blue sky, green grass lawn, fountain waters cooling all
And tall trees of big branches giving shade all over there
Make the park a small paradise for lovers and tourists!
For regaining joyful mood and relaxing in romantic mood
Where can we go for except the park of paradise here?

poem by Ramesh T A
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The Force that Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

poem by Dylan Thomas
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Mango Grove

Dark green canopy
Of mango trees
On terraced fields
Traverse
In the month
When trees
In romance blend
Butterflies of all hues
In jocund mood
Bright sunshine
In shadow of thick clouds
Buzzing bees
Swaying with gentle wind
Spread fragrance
Of sprouting buds
Below
The field
Covered with
Carpet
Lush green.

poem by Sanjay Mehta
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A Weed

Though progress does attempt to prevent
A plant from feeling the warmth of the day,
One small weed crawls through the sidewalk cement,
Forking between two slabs of my pathway.
I pass it, startled by the protrusion,
Impressed that it had learned how to survive.
It seems to thrive despite its seclusion—
Despite all the pollutions that deprive
It. Secondhand water quenches its thirst.
Garbage cloisters in the cracks that surround
It. Yet, the weed does not appear coerced
By the filth that litters the paltry ground.
Somewhere beside the congested gridlock
Of traffic, this plant stands—in the sidewalk.

I stare at the weed for a moment to
Wonder why no one had plucked it before.
It was not something I had sought to do,
But I pondered about what it lived for—
Why it challenged the street with sturdy roots
Or fought industry with a stable stem.
What made its will thoroughly absolute,
Woven to the Earth by a steady hem?
I wanted to hold the plant in my hand,
To cradle its would-be wilting branches—
To be able to truly understand
What the purpose of its burdened life is.
I would take that from the weed so I know
That there is reason left for me to grow.

I resisted the urge to tear the weed
From the ground, dirt shaking as it ascends.
Stealing its life would not provide my need
To discover my answer. I pretend
To break its being from the nature
That has nurtured it, although hostile,
In the hope that I could maybe capture
Its source vitality after a while.
Then I relax, leaving it all alone,
To fend for itself against the climates
And social structures of steel and of stone—
A world possessed by the inanimate.
I walk away and once again it went.
One small weed crawls through the sidewalk cement.

poem by Tim Stensloff
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Special Pleading

THE world's a path all fresh and sweet,
A sky all fresh and fair,
With daisies underneath your feet
And roses for your hair;
Red roses for your pretty hair,
Green trees to shade your way,
And lavish blossoms everywhere,
Because the time is May.

How gold the sun shines through the green!
How soft the turf is spread!
How richly falls the shimmering sheen
About your darling head!
How in the dawn of Paradise
Should you foresee the night?
How, with the sunlight in your eyes,
See aught beyond the light?

The world's a path all rough and wild,
A sky all black with fears,
Among the ghosts, unhappy child,
You stumble, blind with tears;
The track is faint, and far the fold,
And very far the day:
Unless you have a hand to hold,
How will you find the way?

poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Interval

Gone the wild day:
A wilder night
Coming makes way
For brief twilight.

Where the firm soaked road
Mounts and is lost
In the high beech-wood
It shines almost.

The beeches keep
A stormy rest,
Breathing deep
Of wind from the west.

The wood is black,
With a misty steam.
Above, the cloud pack
Breaks for one gleam.

But the woodman's cot
By the ivied trees
Awakens not
To light or breeze.

It smokes aloft
Unwavering:
It hunches soft
Under storm's wing.

It has no care
For gleam or gloom:
It stays there
While I shall roam,

Die, and forget
The hill of trees,
The gleam, the wet,
This roaring peace.

poem by Edward Thomas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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