Life By Birds
At her birth, the morning lark
fan-tailed light and thrushed through dark.
As she grew, the sparrow's song
lofted high. Her life flew long.
In her descent the crows would caw
and dimly raven shapes she saw.
The shroud then loomed, downy pale,
wings swept in, Death, the nightingale.
poem by Glenn Bagshaw
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Related quotes
Juliet: Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
Romeo: It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.
Night‘s candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Juliet: Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhal‘d,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua.
Therefore stay yet; thou need‘st not to be gone.
Romeo: Let me be ta‘en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I‘ll say yon grey is not the morning‘s eye,
‘Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia‘s brow;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads.
I have more care to stay than will to go:
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.
How is‘t, my soul? let‘s talk; it is not day.
Juliet: It is, it is: hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
Some say the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us.
Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes,
O, now I would they had changed voices too!
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunt‘s-up to the day.
O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.
Romeo: More light and light; more dark and dark our woes!
line from Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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As the Crows Gathered
As the Crows Gathered
By: Adam M. Snow
Surrounded by bodies of murder
the flocking and squawk arose.
Score of many rows on girder
feast of death drew the crows.
One to carry souls of many;
one onto life beyond life.
Yet was not the foe-of any-
to leave this world of strife.
The crows they flock,
they flock, they squawk;
flapping their wings tremendously.
They caw, they pecked,
they grew many in score
groups gathered more and more.
Blackened the sky with their endless flutter;
'But what of this? ' I utter.
'My days are long now being nighted.
The crows around have united.'
Feathers falling, covering the ground with black;
everywhere I look, it covers every crack.
The thought of death surrounds us all
before the crows, life will fall.
The ominous bank of crows like a cloud,
covers the world like an endless shroud.
Leaving I, overwhelm with fear
it is death lurking near.
The crows they gathered all in vast;
all is dark than a shadow cast.
They prey the lost and many more,
time has come for death to bore.
poem by Adam M. Snow
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The Knight's Return
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
The were wolves mutter, the night hawks moan,
The raven croaks from the Raven-stone;
What care I for his boding groan,
Riding the moorland to come to mine own?
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
Long have I wander'd by land and by sea,
Long have I ridden by moorland and lea;
Yonder she sits with my babe on her knee,
Sits at the window and watches for me!
Hark! hark! hark!
The lark sings high in the dark.
Written for music, 1857.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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All About Two Friends
Two true friends they were.
A kite and a sparrow living in a tree.
They chit-chatted all day long
And forgot the rest of the world.
None an nothing could separate them
There came a dark and short man once
Who smiled and smiled at the sparrow and
Said aloud, 'It can`t be, how is it that you are here now?
The sparrow turned pale and looked at his friend, the kite.
The little man was looking into a foliage now.
Two true friends they were.
The kite murmered into the ears of his friend,
'Fear not my friend, I shall take you to another tree high and tall
And save you from this dark and short brute..come with me'.
As they flew off unto a far away tree, the'brute'down still smiled.
Two true friends they were.
The kite made the pal sit on a tall branch and said,
'It`s safe here, let me go back and ask that brute who he is? '
The bigger winged beauty flew back to old tree and the'dark brute'
And he hovered around both for some time.
The dark and the short man heard the kite speak,
'Who are you to speak to my friend and why did you speak such words? '
The smiling 'brute'said, 'Oh bird, I am the god of death and as per my book
Thy friend, the sparrow should be on the top of a far off tree
And should have been eaten by a huge snake by now, and therefore alone
I spoke to your friend words'.
Shocked, the flew back to the tree high and tall,
His friend the sparrow was not there on any branch!
Down across the shrubs was moving a big python after feasting on the prey.
The kite flew off unto the skies infinite next.
He and his late friends were two true friends.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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With The Lark
Night is for sorrow and dawn is for joy,
Chasing the troubles that fret and annoy;
Darkness for sighing and daylight for song,--
Cheery and chaste the strain, heartfelt and strong.
All the night through, though I moan in the dark,
I wake in the morning to sing with the lark.
Deep in the midnight the rain whips the leaves,
Softly and sadly the wood-spirit grieves.
But when the first hue of dawn tints the sky,
I shall shake out my wings like the birds and be dry;
And though, like the rain-drops, I grieved through the dark,
I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.
On the high hills of heaven, some morning to be,
Where the rain shall not grieve thro' the leaves of the tree,
There my heart will be glad for the pain I have known,
For my hand will be clasped in the hand of mine own;
And though life has been hard and death's pathway been dark,
I shall wake in the morning to sing with the lark.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Little Raven
Little raven,
Where did you come from?
Little raven,
With your little black body.
Little raven,
With your long, shinny wings.
Little raven,
In mid flight.
Little raven,
With your frightening caw.
Little raven,
Why are you a sigh of death?
poem by Jameaka Shibles
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The Raven Crows
The Raven Crows
by Charles Robert Hice on Thursday, November 22,2012 at 9: 27pm ·
The Raven Crows
The Raven stretches its wings and flies into the gray winter skies while the raven flies it Crows its rawkish voice makes aweful noise
it blows the wind it howls and sounds like a mechanical noise inside the wind
the noise pretends to be the raven as it crows it flies it crows and flies it dives down into the wind and sounds like a noise falling fast and then it sort of dies and falls away not the sound it echoes and it blows
in the middle of the night no one can see the ravens flight but they hear the voice the noise the sound even the wings they flap they glide silent and they hide
The raven seldom crows when it is in its glide it falls and hides no one can see the feathers as it plummets from the sky it moves in a silent fashion
as the raven glides it hides from the eyes of the men it has a sense of reality and a purpose as it glides it looks neither to the left or to the right finally it is satisfied with its destination in its sight the raven crows one final time and plummets like a stone into the night and suddenly a poem is come to earth as Poe hears his famous bird not the crow the rook or the blackbird as it sings but the Raven as it speaks to only him
Nevermore
The Raven Crows
poem by Charles Hice
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Nightingale
(ferry/manzanera)
Before the morning comes, will I hear your song
Come little nightingale, I wont be here for long
When youre up there flying, do you care
If theres no one else around?
When your lover leaves you in the air
Do you waver, do you fall?
Now while the moon is high
Shall we, nightingale,
Duet all through the night
A pair of souls for sale
Stars cluster glistening
Captive till the dawn
Patiently listening
Theyve heard it all before
Should I stay here or should I go?
I couldnt bear to be alone
Was it really love I saw?
Oh, now Ill never know
What is this I hear?
I recognise that song
Sweet little nightingale I knew youd come along
Soon when the morning comes.
We will both be gone
So sing pretty nightingale
Lead, Ill follow on.
song performed by by Roxy Music
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Another Raven Story (A Fable)
It dost speak and live free.
Tamed by men and virtuous scores
The raven's been scarred and bleeding.
'Nevermore should wounds be healed.
Nevermore must I fly.
Death comes as I glide away,
I'd rather bleed here and die!
To seek freedom is to seek death
As lifespans linger on.
So dost my time clock ticks
Wearing my breath down for long.'
He took his plight and roam the earth
Not wanting to flap his feathered wings.
Mingling with rodents and crawling insects
As birds of his kind flew free.
His wounds have healed in time
But he dost stay there, still.
'I'll live here alone and happy
With a world far beyond my mind.
I, a raven, a bird no more;
A creature of earthly soil.
I declare myself splendid
Above the birds I know.
No bird nor life should call me 'Raven'
For bird am I no more.'
He met some friends,
Some creatures from the ground.
'Why art ye this way? ' They asked.
So he told his story to all.
'But thou art a bird.' Said the other.
'And thou shalt not deny it.' Said one.
'Fortunate ye are with wings
Able to explore horizons.
Unlike us who cannot fly
When fires scorch the seasons.'
After that all departed
Thinking how strange the raven's been.
Feeling unwanted, he left.
Still walking, and not with wings.
Night falls, he finds no shelter.
No caves nor holes to spend the night.
His pride's too big for him to go back
To trees he lived, and once called home.
'Further steps would lead new places.
By far, strive hard and well be patient.
My outstretched legs must be kept working
For me to be strong and survive.'
Says he, the raven, denying flight;
Too proud enough to swallow his pride.
Dawn's arriving though it's still dark.
The raven saw this creature and spoke out loud:
'Ye rat, why dost ye have wings? '
Says he, 'Me not a rat, you see;
A mammal of flight am I, a bat! '
Swung free open his wings and flew,
Glides pass the dark, out of moonlight's sight.
'Is he happy? ' Asked the raven to himself.
Sunrise approaching, but still he hasn't rested.
'Guess I have to use these wings.' Quoth he.
'I have no life wandering. The sky's my life.
How treacherous its pangs may be.'
The Sparrow
from the gutters
the little sparrow
sings her song
opening her way
to the beauty of
the human heavens
she flew too high
she wanted to burn
her very own wings!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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False Poets And True (To Wordsworth)
Look how the lark soars upward and is gone,
Turning a spirit as he nears the sky!
His voice is heard, but body there is none
To fix the vague excursions of the eye.
So, poets' songs are with us, tho' they die
Obscured, and hid by death's oblivious shroud,
And Earth inherits the rich melody
Like raining music from the morning cloud.
Yet, few there be who pipe so sweet and loud
Their voices reach us through the lapse of space:
The noisy day is deafen'd by a crowd
Of undistinguished birds, a twittering race;
But only lark and nightingale forlorn
Fill up the silences of night and morn.
poem by Thomas Hood
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Dark Poetry - Dark Love
It is a night of dark desire,
A song of darkness,
Wolves howl and vent their anger,
The immortal one wakens,
Wisps of death shroud her elegant form,
A timeless desire,
Her raven hair cascades over pale shoulders,
And her blood-red lips part, smiling,
White fangs gleaming, she tastes the blood of life,
A Night Of Darkness,
An evil thirst
poem by Kieran J1996
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The Nightingale
WHEN the moon a golden-pale
Lustre on my casement flings,
An enchanted nightingale
In the haunted silence sings.
Strange the song—its wondrous words
Taken from the primal tongue,
Known to men, and beasts, and birds,
When the care-worn world was young
Listening low, I hear the stars
Through her strains move solemnly,
And on lonesome banks and bars
Hear the sobbing of the sea.
And my memory dimly gropes
Hints to gather from her song
Of forgotten fears and hopes,
Joys and griefs forgotten long.
And I feel once more the strife
Of a passion, fierce and grand,
That, in some long-vanished life,
Held my soul at its command.
Ah, my Love, in robes of white
Standing by a moonlit sea,
Like a lily of the night,
Hast thou quite forgotten me?
Dost thou never dream at whiles
Of that silent, templed vale,
And the dim wood in whose aisles
Sang a secret nightingale?
Whither hast thou gone? What star
Holds thy spirit pure and fine?
In this world below there are
None like thee: and thou wert mine!
For a season all things last,
Love and Joy, and Life and Death;
Thou art portion of my past,
I of thine, whilst Time draws breath.
Fades the moonlight golden-pale,
And the bird has ceased to sing—
Ah, it was no nightingale,
But my heart—remembering.
poem by Victor James Daley
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The Frightened Ploughman
I went in the fields with the leisure I got,
The stranger might smile but I heeded him not,
The hovel was ready to screen from a shower,
And the book in my pocket was read in an hour.
The bird came for shelter, but soon flew away;
The horse came to look, and seemed happy to stay;
He stood up in quiet, and hung down his head,
And seemed to be hearing the poem I read.
The ploughman would turn from his plough in the day
And wonder what being had come in his way,
To lie on a molehill and read the day long
And laugh out aloud when he'd finished his song.
The pewit turned over and stooped oer my head
Where the raven croaked loud like the ploughman ill-bred,
But the lark high above charmed me all the day long,
So I sat down and joined in the chorus of song.
The foolhardy ploughman I well could endure,
His praise was worth nothing, his censure was poor,
Fame bade me go on and I toiled the day long
Till the fields where he lived should be known in my song.
poem by John Clare
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Finding Loves Fool
Finding loves fool
loves fool you may be
but I stand in front of thee
a light covered in the shroud of lies
Where sorrow will not die
In the shroud of lies
will I be
So there look for me
If the lies should make you sorrow
Do not cry in fear of tomorrow
For I will find thee before
That marrow
And at that time
There will be no sorrow
Should your eyes still cry
then I will find you in the
in the shroud of lies
Twice as fast as
You cry
Will I fly to your side
may I wipe away the tears
Of pain and sorrow
and your fears
For now and tomorrow
Then from your tears will I form
A drink of love
And sorrow torn
then may I show you the light
Of tomorrow
Along with it the army of sorrow
And then in fight
I shall give you no sorrow
For none shall pass me
But die in the birth of tomorrow
If in case should I die
Then sprout your wings
And fly
Beyond the sight of this marrow
Then rise above
The next army of sorrow
Find me now
Without sorrow
Find me now in
Heavens tomorrow
Then see the light oh fool of love
See the light of heaven above
Then there will be no shroud of lies
And together are wings shall fly
over mountains and beyond the sea
to a place were we can both be
Without the pain and sorrow
But at the birth
Of a new tomorrow
A tomorrow were a new earth brings
The life of another
Child with wings
With these wing he shall soar
And for loves fool
The search
Begins once more
poem by Cody Byrne
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A Raven
Dark bird
Black raven with black wings,
Black eyes as dark as midnight,
Wind flutters his wings,
Shadows turn his head,
And movement catches his stare.
He looks down upon you and watches in dismay,
No black is with in you,
No night in your eyes,
No wings to up lift you,
No shadow to attract you,
And movements pass your gaze.
A raven, A raven, A moonlight silhouette.
Bird Raptures
The sunrise wakes the lark to sing,
The moonrise wakes the nightingale.
Come darkness, moonrise, everything
That is so silent, sweet, and pale,
Come, so ye wake the nightingale.
Make haste to mount, thou wistful moon,
Make haste to wake the nightingale:
Let silence set the world in tune
To hearken to that wordless tale
Which warbles from the nightingale.
O herald skylark, stay thy flight
One moment, for a nightingale
Floods us with sorrow and delight.
To-morrow thou shalt hoist the sail;
Leave us tonight the nightingale.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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The Sun Bird
The sun bird flew high and high
for its destination was sun
but as it drew near its wings did burn
from the heat of the sun but it did not die
it fell down on the earth
and waited till its wings took rebirth
it again flew only to burn its wings and fall
towards the earth but its hope stood atall
for mythology says its divine love for sun
has given it power not to die from burn
so with patience infinite again it flew
with hopes full and wings anew
towards the sun only to burn
but it got up again and flew
towards the sun
towards its destination
poem by Anjesh shekhar
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Angels and Birds
Angels and birds fly
altitude I guess
provides perspective
from height where
we see
the Earth is just a blue ball
rotating in space,
with millions below
unaware of the
Dark Surround;
of Moons and Galaxies.
.
If we listen
we hear
happiness,
anger,
and bliss
all in the cacophonous mix,
and it then seems
that Angel eyes and ears
see true perspective;
birds then
must be
our earthly angels on the wing.
They go south
and come North
too
having seen
much along the way;
they, too,
are lofted
by wings
and they are the closest
I guess
I will get
to heavenly things.
Here's to the Eagle
and the Sparrow
the Chickadee
the Cardinal
and the Crow
for they all soar
high
close to the Angels
and closer than we
to Heaven.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Eyes
the only parts of the body the same
size at birth as they'll always be.
'That's why all babies are beautiful,'
Thurber used to say as he grew
blind -- not dark, he'd go on
to explain, but floating in a pale
light always, a kind of candlelit
murk from a sourceless light.
He needed dark to see:
for a while he drew on black
paper with white pastel chalk
but it grew worse. Light bored
into his eyes but where did it go?
Into a sea of phosphenes,
along the wet fuse of some dead
nerve, it hid everywhere and couldn't
be found. I've used up
three guesses, all of them
right. It's like scuba diving, going down
into the black cone-tip that dives
farther than I can, though I dive
closer all the time.
poem by William Matthews
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