Comradery
With eyes hand-arched he looks into
The morning's face; then turns away
With truant feet, all wet with dew,
Out for a holiday.
The hill brook sings; incessant stars,
Foam-fashioned, on its restless breast;
And where he wades its water-bars
Its song is happiest.
A comrade of the chinquapin,
He looks into its knotty eyes
And sees its heart; and, deep within,
Its soul that makes him wise.
The wood-thrush knows and follows him,
Who whistles up the birds and bees;
And round him all the perfumes swim
Of woodland loam and trees.
Where'er he pass the silvery springs'
Foam-people sing the flowers awake;
And sappy lips of bark-clad things
Laugh ripe each berried brake.
His touch is a companionship;
His word an old authority:
He comes, a lyric on his lip,
The woodboy-Poesy.
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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Related quotes
My Playmate
The pines were dark on Ramoth hill,
Their song was soft and low;
The blossoms in the sweet May wind
Were falling like the snow.
The blossoms drifted at our feet,
The orchard birds sang clear;
The sweetest and the saddest day
It seemed of all the year.
For, more to me than birds or flowers,
My playmate left her home,
And took with her the laughing spring,
The music and the bloom.
She kissed the lips of kith and kin,
She laid her hand in mine
What more could ask the bashful boy
Who fed her father's kine?
She left us in the bloom of May
The constant years told o'er
Their seasons with as sweet May morns,
But she came back no more.
I walk, with noiseless feet, the round
Of uneventful years;
Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring
And reap the autumn ears.
She lives where all the golden year
Her summer roses blow;
The dusky children of the sun
Before her come and go.
There haply with her jewelled hands
She smooths her silken gown,-
No more the homespun lap wherein
I shook the walnuts down.
The wild grapes wait us by the brook,
The brown nuts on the hill,
And still the May-day flowers make sweet
The woods of Follymill.
The lilies blossom in the pond,
The bird builds in the tree,
The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill
The slow song of the sea.
I wonder if she thinks of them,
And how the old time seems,-
If ever the pines of Ramoth wood
Are sounding in her dreams.
I see her face, I hear her voice;
Does she remember mine?
And what to her is now the boy
Who fed her father's kine?
What cares she that the orioles build
For other eyes than ours,-
That other hands with nuts are filled,
And other laps with flowers?
O playmate in the golden time!
Our mossy seat is green,
Its fringing violets blossom yet,
The old trees o'er it lean.
The winds so sweet with birch and fern
A sweeter memory blow;
And there in spring the veeries sing
The song of long ago.
And still the pines of Ramoth wood
Are moaning like the sea,-
The moaning of the sea of change
Between myself and thee!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Brook-Song
Little brook! Little brook!
You have such a happy look--
Such a very merry manner, as you swerve and
curve and crook--
And your ripples, one and one,
Reach each other's hands and run
Like laughing little children in the sun!
Little brook, sing to me:
Sing about a bumblebee
That tumbled from a lily-bell and grumbled
mumblingly,
Because he wet the film
Of his wings, and had to swim,
While the water-bugs raced round and
laughed at him!
Little brook-sing a song
Of a leaf that sailed along
Down the golden-braided centre of your current
swift and strong,
And a dragon-fly that lit
On the tilting rim of it,
And rode away and wasn't scared a bit.
And sing--how oft in glee
Came a truant boy like me,
Who loved to lean and listen to your lilting
melody,
Till the gurgle and refrain
Of your music in his brain
Wrought a happiness as keen to him
as pain.
Little brook-laugh and leap!
Do not let the dreamer weep:
Sing him all the songs of summer till he sink in
softest sleep;
And then sing soft and low
Through his dreams of long ago--
Sing back to him the rest he used to
know!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Nature
Like a chariot all pervading
She is still there
Wading through the stream
Down the hill
In the dale
Chasing the sheep
In the meadows lush green
Sweet scent spreads around
Birds sing in your ears
Even the deaf can hear
Fishes swim to the birds song
Bees provide the gong
And trees swing to conduct the song.
Harmony, perfect harmony
Gives birth to the snowy clouds
That spread the light
Crystal waters touch the virgin land
Sweetened water comes through this land
Stand not here
Pay homage and pass
Carry her in your thoughts
For how long can she withstand ‘Cupid's' onslaught.
poem by Sanjay Mehta
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If I Could Pen One Worthy Lyric
If I knew I had penned one worthy lyric that would outlive me by more than a day
Then I'd be happy at this very minute to give penning of doggerel away
I'd say to myself I've written something of value to call it quits now seems the time
For too long I've put too much effort into penning of doggerel rhyme.
The beautiful song of the shrike thrush in the morning breeze comes to me
He whistles in the nearby Woodlet I know his song though him I can't see
He cares not for fame or for success content in his own territory
His gift of song he'll pass on to his offsprings to insure his immortality.
Around his borders in the breeding season he whistles and sings all day long
His greatest gift from Mother Nature the gift of a beautiful song
His song will live on in his children when from the Woodlet he has gone
If I could pen one worthy lyric my legacy too would live on.
If I could pen one worthy lyric I would gladly give rhyming away
But perhaps I will keep penning doggerel right up until my dying day
In hope of writing something of value that others may read and enjoy
Like the poems of the immortal poets that I read in school as a boy.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Merlin's Isle
O, I went down to Merlin's Isle,
And when that I had found it,
I kneeled me down a little while
And praised the peace that bound it.
There were no seas around it,
But the full tide of turf in flood
To the rim of the berried hawthorn wood,
And a dew-pond where the dear stars stood
Too deep for me to sound it.
O, I went down to Merlin's Isle
And there I soon did learn-a,
The winds they did implore me,
How sweet two beech-brown eyes may smile
Among the maiden fern-a.
My poor heart took a turn-a.
In a warm wind the whitebeam foam
Ran quick along the silvering loam,
And I was young and far from home,
As you may well discern-a
O, I went home from Merlin's Isle,
My dear was there before me.
In the moonshine by the shepherd's stile
A kind of grief came o'er me.
The winds they did implore me,
'And come,' they said, but I said 'Nay,
For the honey star hath closed the day,
And love that borrowed my soul away,
Sweet love shall now restore me.'
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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An Earth`s Spirit
Around Earth are light and people`s thoughts
They fill a spirit keeps the planet`s mind.
It looks at us, of love and wisdom knots,
When we try them in our breast to find.
His eyes are sky and all eternal space,
His lips are song of warm and gold sun.
When we see stars, we look at spirit`s face
And always on the wing of justice run.
He holds the planet in a hopeful hand,
His feeling sees the past and present time,
He prays for us, we should not reach the end,
And if we do, he judges our crime.
He is a mentor for each lyric child,
He gives the muse, unusual world view.
He makes us clean, profound, clever, mild,
He makes us love and of its ways crew.
poem by Ekaterina Polischuk
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The Dreamer on the Sea-shore
What are the dreams of him who may sleep
Where the solemn voice of the troubled deep
Steals on the wind with a sullen roar,
And the waters foam along the shore?
Who shelter'd lies in some calm retreat,
And hears the music of waves at his feet?
He sees not the sail that passes on
O'er the sunny fields of the sea, alone,
The farthest point that gleams on the sight,
A vanishing speck of glittering light.
He sees not the spray that, spreading wide,
Throws its lines of snow on the dark green tide;
Or the billows rushing with crests of foam
As they strove which first should reach their home—
Their home! What home has the restless main,
Which only arrives to return again,
Like the wand'rer she bears on her stormy breast,
Who seeks in vain for a place of rest.
Lo! His visions bear him along
To rocks that have heard the mermaid's song:
Or, borne on the surface of some dark surge,
Unharm'd he lies, while they onward urge
Their rapid course, and waft him away
To islands half hid 'midst the shadowy spray,
Where trees wave their boughs in the perfum'd gale,
And bid the wave-borne stranger hail;
Where birds are flitting like gems in the sun,
And streams over emerald meadows run,
That whisper in melody as they glide
To the flowers that blush along their side.
Sorrow ne'er came to that blissful shore,
For no mortal has entered that isle before:
There the Halcyon waits on the sparkling strand
Till the bark of her lover the Nautilus land;
She spreads her purple wings to the air,
And she sees his fragile vessel there—
She sees him float on the summer sea,
Where no breath but the sigh of his love may be.
The dreamer leaps towards that smiling shore—
When, lo! the vision is there no more!
Its trees, its flowers, its birds are gone—
A waste of waters is spread alone.
Plunged in the tide, he struggles amain—
High they pour, and he strives in vain:
He sinks—the billows close over his head,
He shrieks—'tis over—the dream is fled;
Secure he lies in his calm retreat,
And the idle waters still rave at his feet.
poem by Louisa Stuart Costello
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When Theres No One Around
This is a song that nobody knows
I couldnt begin to describe how it goes
But it makes me cry or laugh right out loud
Its a song that I sing when theres no one around
This is the man that nobody sees
He wears my old clothes and he looks just like me
Just one of the boys who gets lost in the crowd
Hes the man that I am when theres no one around
Its four in the morning
Im lyin in bed
A tape of my failures
Playin inside my head
Its heartaches and hard knocks
And things I dont know
I listen and I wonder
Where will it go
This is a glimpse of the child thats within
Hes so immature but hes still my best friend
If he could learn how to fly hed never touch down
Hes the kid that I am when theres no one around
This is the dance I do every day
I let my feet go and get carried away
I let my soul lead and follow the sound
Its the dance that I do when theres no one around
Its four in the morning
Im lyin in bed
A tape of my failures
Playin inside my head
Its heartaches and hard knocks
And things I dont know
I listen and I wonder
Where will it go
Thi is a song that nobody knows
I still cant begin to describe how it goes
But it makes me cry our laugh right out loud
Its a song that I sing when theres no one around
Its a song that I sing when theres no one around
song performed by by Garth Brooks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ode to you
It is not how you look,
But how I see you,
With chaste heart and pure eyes,
I solemnize you,
My beloved,
I restraining my fervent blood,
To be recognize not,
I quietly awake,
But you bed yourself in my lines,
As in placid lakes,
Or wave-foam
Earth music
Seas fragrance
In you,
Nakedly clear,
And beautiful to me,
Whether it is your strong hands,
On my breast,
At a primal touch,
Or your ultra thick lips,
Like a musical instrument,
The essentials of your skin,
Color and redolence.
The deep landscape
And meekness of your eyes.
You steal my breathe in a verse,
And I keep writing to you my love.
Copyright©ElenaToledo2009
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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On Seeing a Train Start for the Seaside
O might I leave this grassy place
For spreading foam about my feet!
The splendid spray upon my face,
The flying brine itself were sweet
If I might hear on Cromer beach
The freedom of Old Neptune's speech!
Ah, never language like to this
For those whose ears can understand!
Sometimes the coming of a kiss
To mate the ocean with the strand;
Sometimes the nameless oath is heard
The sea-god thunders through his beard!
I have a sea of blue on high,
I have a sea of green beneath;
For me sweet inland birds do cry
Until with joy I hold my breath;
But Ocean's harp of wave and stone
Is bird and leaf and stream in one!
Upon my dancing apple-sprays
The blackbird whistles melodies;
Half through a mellow run he stays
And flashes to a neighbour's trees:
He's rare, but rarer now would be
The strident pebbles of the sea.
And is it strange that round the shore
The lyric water should rejoice?
Ah no! for ever more and more
The happy dead are in its voice.
Majestic poet! might I be
As full of song, as finely free!
poem by Norman Rowland Gale
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The Reverie of Poor Susan
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.
Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!
poem by William Wordsworth
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The Siren's Cry
Thy silent maiden floats at sea,
Long golden hair flowing around her bod,
Nothing in her mind but a tale of love and woe,
As her tears fall to be lost in the sea,
Never to be seen again, but by those who whisper to she,
Whisper of a light so bright, that you cannot see the world,
The world that engulfs thy in horror of unreal wonders,
As water laps at thy feet, reaching, reaching for thy soul,
Crying the sirens cry to lure thee to her breast,
Her breast where thy silent maiden lay awaiting her lover’s hand,
Waiting for her tears to be dried with thy finger of love,
And still thy stand overcome by thy light of selfishness and want,
And still thy silent maiden lies out at sea,
Silver tears flowing from her closed eyes,
Arms out brushing backs of dolphins and whales,
Hair dancing in the waves,
As she sings her sirens song, pushing, pushing the water,
The waster that laps at thy feet, reaching, reaching for thy soul,
Water made of the sirens cry,
Luring thy to her breast, where thy silent maiden lay awaiting,
Awaiting her lovers hand to wipe away her tears,
And like so many before that have given their heart to her,
And that have become the foam that lines the sea,
Like those before,
Thou shall fall to the sirens cry.
By: Bethany Maxwell
September 18,2009
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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The Sea-Maiden
Like summer waves on sands of snow,
Soft ringlets clasp her neck and brow,
And wandering breezes kiss away
A threaded light of glimmering spray,
That drifts and floats and softly flies
In a golden mist about her eyes.
Her laugh is fresh as foam that springs
Through tumbling shells and shining things,
And where the gleaming margin dries
Is heard the music of her sighs.
Her gentle bosom ebbs and swells
With the tide of life that deeply wells
From a throbbing heart that loves to break
In the tempest of love for love's sweet sake.
O, the fragrance of earth, and the song of the sea,
And the light of the heavens, are only three
Of the thousand glories that Love can trace,
In her life, and her soul, and her beautiful face.
This tangled weed of poesy,
Torn from the heart of a stormy sea,
I fling upon the love divine
Of her, who fills this heart of mine.
poem by Dowell O'Reilly
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The soul, song of love
The soul, song of love
I sing from the bottom of my heart
The soul song, I sing I cry I laugh
I cheer I love enjoy
Too sing for you to hear me cry
Sweet heart listen be happy
Tune penetrate into flesh to bone
To feel to touch
To get to hold
The heart sings the soul, song of love
Just to let you know only you I love
Only you I sing only you can hear
For love for comfort
For peace and happiness
Hold and touch
The soul, song of you
The soul, the song belong to you
with the heart
poem by See Fee Lee
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Under-Song
There is music in the strong
Deep-throated bush,
Whisperings of song
Heard in the leaves' hush -
Ballads of the trees
In tongues unknown -
A reminiscent tone
On minor keys…
Boughs swaying to and fro
Though no winds pass…
Faint odors in the grass
Where no flowers grow,
And flutterings of wings
And faint first notes,
Once babbled on the boughs
Of faded springs.
Is it music from the graves
Of all things fair
Trembling on the staves
Of spacious air -
Fluted by the winds
Songs with no words -
Sonatas from the throats
Of master birds?
One peering through the husk
Of darkness thrown
May hear it in the dusk -
That ancient tone,
Silvery as the light
Of long dead stars
Yet falling through the night
In trembling bars.
poem by Lola Ridge
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The Song Of An African
The Song Builds
The Song Destroys
The Song Dispenses
In Suspence The Song Reveals
In Time I Sing It
At Times I Bring It
To The Bank Near To My Heart
I Lie Awake With My Sleeping Eyes
And The Song Sings Herself
The Lyric Sings Himself
The My Mind Braniwashed With Honey To My Ears
The Song Feeds
The Song Provides Seeds
With Knowledge It Is Food.
With Wisdom Declared Wate
The Song Heals
And Yes In Pays The Bilss
For Long Named It Belief
So Long Came To My Mind Hardwork
Percevearance Its Clan To Tribe Success
The Song Is Mine
Oh Yes It Is.
poem by Anele ''The African Son'' kaPotelwa
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The Canary In His Cage
SING away, ay, sing away,
Merry little bird,
Always gayest of the gay,
Though a woodland roundelay
You ne'er sung nor heard;
Though your life from youth to age
Passes in a narrow cage.
Near the window wild birds fly,
Trees are waving round:
Fair things everywhere you spy
Through the glass pane's mystery,
Your small life's small bound:
Nothing hinders your desire
But a little gilded wire.
Like a human soul you seem
Shut in golden bars:
Placed amidst earth's sunshine-stream,
Singing to the morning beam,
Dreaming 'neath the stars:
Seeing all life's pleasures clear,--
But they never can come near.
Never! Sing, bird-poet mine,
As most poets do;--
Guessing by an instinct fine
At some happiness divine
Which they never knew.
Lonely in a prison bright
Hymning for the world's delight.
Yet, my birdie, you're content
In your tiny cage:
Not a carol thence is sent
But for happiness is meant--
Wisdom pure as sage:
Teaching, the true poet's part
Is to sing with merry heart.
So, lie down thou peevish pen,
Eyes, shake off all tears;
And my wee bird, sing again:
I'll translate your song to men
In these future years.
'Howsoe'er thy lot's assigned,
Bear it with a cheerful mind.'
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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To Mary In Summer
LAY your head here, Mary,
Lay your head here,
While the blown grass, Mary,
With timid voice and wary,
Sings in your ear:—
The grass which round us, Mary,
Shuts like a nest;
By your dear limbs, dear Mary,
Lighter than limbs of Faery,
Daintily press'd.
Back with it all though, Mary,
Back and aside;
The wind comes this way, Mary,
And here the trees are airy
And the skies are wide.
What do your eyes fear, Mary,
So grave and soft?
I love to see them, Mary,
In whimsical vagary
Lifted aloft.
Mary, Mary, Mary,
Laugh in my face:
You know now, my own Mary,
No eyes can laugh so rarely
Or grant such grace.
Your cheek is pale now, Mary,
And red, by turns.
Why should the hand be chary
Of that to give which, Mary,
The heart so yearns?
Give me your hand, ah Mary,
Give me your hand:
In city or in prairie
There is none kinder, Mary,
From land to land.
Your lips to my lips, Mary,
Your lips to mine:
High up in Hebe's dairy
No milk so sweet, my Mary,
On earth no wine.
Lay your head here, Mary,
Lay your head here;
While my heart now, Mary,
The pleasant tune to vary,
Beats in your ear.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Someday Morning
As the early morning filters through
My shuttered window pane
I look about and realize
That things are still the same
These flowers in a glass
Mark the hours that have passed
As I lay sleeping
And I can hear my footsteps ringing
Down the empty morning street
And the concrete that I walk upon
Is cold beneath my feet
A single winging dove
Reminds me of the sleeping love
That I am leaving
cause everyone must someday do his own thing
cause everyone must someday do his own thing
And I have a brand new song to sing
In the morning skies the stars
Begin to sputter and to fade
As the night surrenders all its claim
On shadows it has made
A watchdogs hungry bark
Is the mornings first remark
Upon my walking
And everyone must someday do his own thing
And everyone must someday do his own thing
And I have a brand new song to sing
And Im told that if I try
That I can do most anything
Well then I would like to sing a song
And make this morning ring
As the morning turns to day
Hear the waking city say
Who is that singing
song performed by by Jackson Browne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Penumbra
I DID not look upon her eyes,
(Though scarcely seen, with no surprise,
'Mid many eyes a single look,)
Because they should not gaze rebuke,
At night, from stars in sky and brook.
I did not take her by the hand,
(Though little was to understand
From touch of hand all friends might take,)
Because it should not prove a flake
Burnt in my palm to boil and ache.
I did not listen to her voice,
(Though none had noted, where at choice
All might rejoice in listening,)
Because no such a thing should cling
In the wood's moan at evening.
I did not cross her shadow once,
(Though from the hollow west the sun's
Last shadow runs along so far,)
Because in June it should not bar
My ways, at noon when fevers are.
They told me she was sad that day,
(Though wherefore tell what love's soothsay,
Sooner than they, did register?)
And my heart leapt and wept to her,
And yet I did not speak nor stir.
So shall the tongues of the sea's foam
(Though many voices therewith come
From drowned hope's home to cry to me,)
Bewail one hour the more, when sea
And wind are one with memory.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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