En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Oahu

Here on this island, summer never sleeps.
In the green valleys, smoke in cane-time drifts
With mist—frail tide that laps the chasmed deeps
Between the steep clean hills as the sea-tide
Once washed the silent hidden hollow rifts
And unseen valleys of its unborn bride.

Sea-bride, child of earth’s red molten womb,
Daughter of fire and chaos long since sleeping,
Who were the people that made your green hills bloom?
Wedded to the seas they were, like you;
From the dark sea, while you your watch were keeping,
They came to make their destined rendezvous.

The broad bare feet step forth on virgin sand,
And eyes raise to the green eternal hills:
Gray mist, green hills and fertile red-clay land,
Alone no more. The carefree caroling laughter
Drifts inland, where valley mist distills
The songs that shall be sung forever after.

poem by S.J. Fulton
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Green.

Green are the valleys
green are the fields
green are the forests and long rolling hills
green like the shamrock and eyes with a smile
green as old Ireland
The emerald isle.

poem by Charles M. Moore
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Plantation Boy

Lots of people walk about proud and free
Lift up your head start looking around
Theres a brandnew feeling of liberty
Like a clear bell thats starting to sound
Plantation boy
Cmon and get going
Yesterdays chains have broken in two
Plantation boy
The new move is growing
Reaching the hills and the valleys and you
Plantation boy
Plantation boy
Lots of smiling faces for you to meet
So many hands to help you along
Just shake off the mud that weighs down your feet
If you stand tall you just cant go wrong
Plantation boy
Cmon and get going
Yesterdays chains have broken in two
Plantation boy
The new move is growing
Reaching the hills, the valleys and you
Plantation boy
Plantation boy
Years of picking cotton for little pay
Living alone in some wooden shack
Sweating in the heat of a summers day
This is all over, you wont come back
Plantation boy
Cmon and get going
Yesterdays chains have broken in two
Plantation boy
The new move is growing
Reaching the hills, the valleys and you
Plantation boy
Plantation boy
Plantation boy
Cmon and get going
Yesterdays chains have broken in two
Plantation boy
The new move is growing
Reaching the hills, the valleys and you
Plantation boy
Plantation boy
Plantation boy
Plantation boy
Wherever you may go
Reaching the hills and the valleys and you...
Reaching the hills and the valleys and you...
Reaching the hills and the valleys and you...
Reaching the hills and the valleys and you...
Reaching the hills and the valleys and you...
Reaching the hills and the valleys and you...
Reaching the hills and the valleys and you...
Reaching the hills and the valleys and you...
Reaching the hills and the valleys and you...
Reaching the hills and the valleys and you...
Reaching the hills and the valleys and you...

song performed by by Boney M.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Khaki Hills

khaki hills,
light-washed, bleached
summer clean,
slopes folded
oaken-green

as a horse, mad
in the morning mist,
gallops and kicks
at nothing.

poem by Steven Federle
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The Gippsland Hills

The hills of Gippsland were so green but that was in September
And songbirds piping happy songs as well I might remember
But now the Gippsland hills are gray since sun changed the grass colour
And though the sun shines hot today this countryside looks duller.

The Gippsland hills were green in Spring and grass growing winds were blowing
And all along the sunlit hills the wildering flowers were showing
And bell magpie piped his joyful notes and butcherbird was singing
And through those hills those happy hills the bushlark's voice went ringing.

The Gippsland hills the sunburnt hills grown lonelier and quieter
And like the shades of old man's hair they've turned a gray type whiter
The nearby creek in trickle flow, the birds have lost their voices
And not one of Nature's minstrels now on Gippsland hills rejoices.

The Gippsland hills the sunburnt hills have lost their Spring like colour
And though the sun shines hot today the Gippsland hills look duller
But Spring bring green to Gippsland hills Spring rains and soft winds blowing
And birds will sing on Gippsland hills and Gippsland creeks fast flowing.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Bitter Green

Upon the bitter green she walked the hills above the town
Echo to her footsteps as soft as eider down
Waiting for her master to kiss away her tears
Waiting through the years
Bitter green they called her
Walking in the sun
Loving everyone that she met
Bitter green they called her
Waiting in the sun
Waiting for someone to take her home
Some say he was a sailor who died away at sea
Some say he was a prisoner who never was set free
Lost upon the ocean he died there in the mist
Dreaming of her kiss
Bitter green they called her
Walking in the sun
Loving everyone that she met
Bitter green they called her
Waiting in the sun
Waiting for someone to take her home
But now the bitter green is gone, the hills have turned to rust
There comes a weary stranger, his tears fall in the dust
Kneeling by the churchyard in the autumn mist
Dreaming of a kiss
Bitter green they called her
Walking in the sun
Loving everyone that she met
Bitter green they called her
Waiting in the sun
Waiting for someone to take her home

song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song Of The Chattahoochee

Out of the hills of Habersham,
Down the valleys of Hall,
I hurry amain to reach the plain,
Run the rapid and leap the fall,
Split at the rock and together again,
Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,
And flee from folly on every side
With a lover's pain to attain the plain
Far from the hills of Habersham,
Far from the valleys of Hall.

All down the hills of Habersham,
All through the valleys of Hall,
The rushes cried `Abide, abide,'
The willful waterweeds held me thrall,
The laving laurel turned my tide,
The ferns and the fondling grass said `Stay,'
The dewberry dipped for to work delay,
And the little reeds sighed `Abide, abide,
Here in the hills of Habersham,
Here in the valleys of Hall.'

High o'er the hills of Habersham,
Veiling the valleys of Hall,
The hickory told me manifold
Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall
Wrought me her shadowy self to hold,
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,
Said, `Pass not, so cold, these manifold
Deep shades of the hills of Habersham,
These glades in the valleys of Hall.'

And oft in the hills of Habersham,
And oft in the valleys of Hall,
The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl,
And many a luminous jewel lone
- Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,
Ruby, garnet and amethyst -
Made lures with the lights of streaming stone
In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,
In the beds of the valleys of Hall.

But oh, not the hills of Habersham,
And oh, not the valleys of Hall
Avail: I am fain for to water the plain.
Downward the voices of Duty call -
Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main,
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,
And the lordly main from beyond the plain
Calls o'er the hills of Habersham,
Calls through the valleys of Hall.

poem by Sidney Lanier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Song Of The Chattahoochee

Out of the hills of Habersham,
Down the valleys of Hall,
I hurry amain to reach the plain,
Run the rapid and leap the fall,
Split at the rock and together again,
Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,
And flee from folly on every side
With a lover's pain to attain the plain
Far from the hills of Habersham,
Far from the valleys of Hall.

All down the hills of Habersham,
All through the valleys of Hall,
The rushes cried `Abide, abide,'
The willful waterweeds held me thrall,
The laving laurel turned my tide,
The ferns and the fondling grass said `Stay,'
The dewberry dipped for to work delay,
And the little reeds sighed `Abide, abide,
Here in the hills of Habersham,
Here in the valleys of Hall.'

High o'er the hills of Habersham,
Veiling the valleys of Hall,
The hickory told me manifold
Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall
Wrought me her shadowy self to hold,
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,
Said, `Pass not, so cold, these manifold
Deep shades of the hills of Habersham,
These glades in the valleys of Hall.'

And oft in the hills of Habersham,
And oft in the valleys of Hall,
The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl,
And many a luminous jewel lone
-- Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,
Ruby, garnet and amethyst --
Made lures with the lights of streaming stone
In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,
In the beds of the valleys of Hall.

But oh, not the hills of Habersham,
And oh, not the valleys of Hall
Avail: I am fain for to water the plain.
Downward the voices of Duty call --
Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main,
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,
And the lordly main from beyond the plain
Calls o'er the hills of Habersham,
Calls through the valleys of Hall.

poem by Sidney Lanier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ancient Hills Of Toora

The ancient hills of Toora are looking brown today
Yet they were lush and rather green when last I passed this way
But that was last September when the nesting birds did sing
And every where looked greener in the early days of Spring.

To those ancient hills of Toora the Seasons come and go
And where once were thousands of gum trees only a few gums grow
And the Aboriginals who lived and hunted on those hills are not around today
Time brings with it great changes and it's always been that way.

The ancient hills of Toora as old as father time
And they were millions of years old when Christ was in his prime
The oldest human on Planet Earth perhaps fifteen years with five score
But the ancient hills of Toora will exist forever more.

The ancient hills of Toora overlooking Toora Town
From the long and warm dry Summer have never looked so brown
But I recall last September decked in their wildering flowers
Those ancient hills of Toora lush and green after Spring showers.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Over The Hills

The old hound wags his shaggy tail,
And I know what he would say:
It's over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills, and away.

There's nought for us here save to count the clock,
And hang the head all day:
But over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.

Here among men we're like the deer
That yonder is our prey:
So, over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.

The hypocrite is master here,
But he's the cock of clay:
So, over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.

The women, they shall sigh and smile,
And madden whom they may:
It's over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.

Let silly lads in couples run
To pleasure, a wicked fay:
'Tis ours on the heather to bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.

The torrent glints under the rowan red,
And shakes the bracken spray:
What joy on the heather to bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.

The sun bursts broad, and the heathery bed
Is purple, and orange, and gray:
Away, and away, we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.

poem by George Meredith
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A Rondel of Gloucestershire

Big glory mellowing on the mellowing hills,
And in the Uttle valleys, thatch and dreams,
Wrought by the manifold and vagrant wills
Of sun and ripening rain and wind ; so gleams
My country, that great magic cup which spills
Into my mind a thousand thousand streams
Of glory mellowing on the mellowing hills
And in the httle valleys, thatch and dreams.

O you dear heights of blue no ploughman tiUs,
O valleys where the curling mist upsteams
White over fields of trembhng daffodils.
And you old dusty little water-mills.
Through all my life, for joy of you, sweet thrills
Shook me, and in my death at last there beams
Big glory mellowing on the mellowing hills
And in the Uttle valleys, thatch and dreams.

poem by Frederick William Harvey
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From A Train

Green and green; and evergreen
in my all, and scurrying
in flickered films
of glimpses, painted green...
and a car in the lane silently shimmers,
as I hear the morning swaying past trees that,
green over green,
silently guard the wet summer sadness,
where cattle stare at the hopping rooks
and do not know
of the things that have been...
or care.

Cloudly and bright:
passing the green.
Where, in my remembrance of once long ago,
I felt the mist
rising unseen from the grass
that was green between green
when we kissed.

So I hum a small phrase
that carries my thoughts
ever and onwards,
listlessly flowing
like the world that is passing
the window beside me
all behind all, so totally green
and all in my knowing
and all in my all
and all in my green.

poem by Peter Jones
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The path is stony
Through valleys deep and hidden
But green hills you'll reach

haiku by Peter S. Quinn
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Indian Summer

Along the line of smoky hills
The crimson forest stands,
And all the day the blue-jay calls
Throughout the autumn lands.

Now by the brook the maple leans
With all his glory spread,
And all the sumachs on the hills
Have turned their green to red.

Now by great marshes wrapt in mist,
Or past some river's mouth,
Throughout the long, still autumn day
Wild birds are flying south.

poem by William Wilfred Campbell
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The Heavenly Hills of Holland

The heavenly hills of Holland,--
How wondrously they rise
Above the smooth green pastures
Into the azure skies!
With blue and purple hollows,
With peaks of dazzling snow,
Along the far horizon
The clouds are marching slow.

No mortal foot has trodden
The summits of that range,
Nor walked those mystic valleys
Whose colors ever change;
Yet we possess their beauty,
And visit them in dreams,
While the ruddy gold of sunset
From cliff and canyon gleams.

In days of cloudless weather
They melt into the light;
When fog and mist surround us
They're hidden from our sight;
But when returns a season
Clear shining after rain,
While the northwest wind is blowing,
We see the hills again.

The old Dutch painters loved them,
Their pictures show them clear,
Old Hobbema and Ruysdael,
Van Goyen and Vermeer.
Above the level landscape,
Rich polders, long-armed mills,
Canals and ancient cities,--
Float Holland's heavenly hills.

poem by Henry Van Dyke
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The River Path

No bird-song floated down the hill,
The tangled bank below was still;

No rustle from the birchen stem,
No ripple from the water's hem.

The dusk of twilight round us grew,
We felt the falling of the dew;

For, from us, ere the day was done,
The wooded hills shut out the sun.

But on the river's farther side
We saw the hill-tops glorified,--

A tender glow, exceeding fair,
A dream of day without its glare.

With us the damp, the chill, the gloom
With them the sunset's rosy bloom;

While dark, through willowy vistas seen,
The river rolled in shade between.

From out the darkness where we trod,
We gazed upon those bills of God,

Whose light seemed not of moon or sun.
We spake not, but our thought was one.

We paused, as if from that bright shore
Beckoned our dear ones gone before;

And stilled our beating hearts to hear
The voices lost to mortal ear!

Sudden our pathway turned from night;
The hills swung open to the light;

Through their green gates the sunshine showed,
A long, slant splendor downward flowed.

Down glade and glen and bank it rolled;
It bridged the shaded stream with gold;

And, borne on piers of mist, allied
The shadowy with the sunlit side!

'So,' prayed we, 'when our feet draw near
The river dark, with mortal fear,

'And the night cometh chill with dew,
O Father! let Thy light break through!

'So let the hills of doubt divide,
So bridge with faith the sunless tide!

'So let the eyes that fail on earth
On Thy eternal hills look forth;

'And in Thy beckoning angels know
The dear ones whom we loved below!'

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Sunset On The Bearcamp

A gold fringe on the purpling hem
Of hills the river runs,
As down its long, green valley falls
The last of summer's suns.

Along its tawny gravel-bed
Broad-flowing, swift, and still,
As if its meadow levels felt
The hurry of the hill,
Noiseless between its banks of green
From curve to curve it slips;
The drowsy maple-shadows rest
Like fingers on its lips.

A waif from Carroll's wildest hills,
Unstoried and unknown;
The ursine legend of its name
Prowls on its banks alone.
Yet flowers as fair its slopes adorn
As ever Yarrow knew,
Or, under rainy Irish skies,
By Spenser's Mulla grew;
And through the gaps of leaning trees
Its mountain cradle shows
The gold against the amethyst,
The green against the rose.

Touched by a light that hath no name,
A glory never sung,
Aloft on sky and mountain wall
Are God's great pictures hung.
How changed the summits vast and old!
No longer granite-browed,
They melt in rosy mist; the rock
Is softer than the cloud;
The valley holds its breath; no leaf
Of all its elms is twirled
The silence of eternity
Seems falling on the world.

The pause before the breaking seals
Of mystery is this;
Yon miracle-play of night and day
Makes dumb its witnesses.
What unseen altar crowns the hills
That reach up stair on stair?
What eyes look through, what white wings fan
These purple veils of air?
What Presence from the heavenly heights
To those of earth stoops down?
Not vainly Hellas dreamed of gods
On Ida's snowy crown!

Slow fades the vision of the sky,
The golden water pales,
And over all the valley-land
A gray-winged vapor sails.
I go the common way of all;
The sunset fires will burn,
The flowers will blow, the river flow,
When I no more return.
No whisper from the mountain pine
Nor lapsing stream shall tell
The stranger, treading where I tread,
Of him who loved them well.

But beauty seen is never lost,
God's colors all are fast;
The glory of this sunset heaven
Into my soul has passed,
A sense of gladness unconfined
To mortal date or clime;
As the soul liveth, it shall live
Beyond the years of time.
Beside the mystic asphodels
Shall bloom the home-born flowers,
And new horizons flush and glow
With sunset hues of ours.

Farewell! these smiling hills must wear
Too soon their wintry frown,
And snow-cold winds from off them shake
The maple's red leaves down.
But I shall see a summer sun
Still setting broad and low;
The mountain slopes shall blush and bloom,
The golden water flow.
A lover's claim is mine on all
I see to have and hold,--
The rose-light of perpetual hills,
And sunsets never cold!

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Rosebank

From the village of Rosebank the hills look so green
A beautiful country as fine as i've seen
A gem of the mountains on the higher ground
Is this quiet little village with hills all around.

In the Green Frog cafe i go back in time
A bard of the old school sat crafting his rhyme
His long hair and long beard seemed whiter than gray
And he sat in the cafe and wrote every day.

In the 'Green Frog' each morning for an hour or two
He sipped his coffee looking out on the view
He took in the beauty it came out in words
The green of the woods and the songs of the birds.

He sat in the cafe this maker of song
And sipped on his coffee and he thought hard and long
And he gazed on those mountains and song to him came
And he died old and poor though he lives on in fame.

And though the bard for long years has now lain with the dead
His verses survive and by many still read
And the mountains of Rosebank that gave him his rhyme
Are still green as ever unfaded by time.

poem by Francis Duggan
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J-Home

These soft, round, green hills
Soothe my mind
Quiet my soul

I left them for the ocean
And some other hills

I saw whales and seals
Waves tossed my kayak
Winds threatened my schooner

Sunset at Campobello gloried my dinner
Granite boulders demanded climbing
Tide pools opened other lives to us

A sandy beach of ground up seashells
Gave us rocks and sand dollars
And time to chase the waves

The stiff, soft ocean air
Changed us for a moment
A day
A lifetime

These soft, round, green hills
Soothe my mind
Quiet my soul
Welcome me
Home

July 25,1997

poem by Marjorie DeBol DeFazio
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Spring

Wake up again, sad heart, wake up again !
(I heard the birds this morning singing sweet.)
Wake up again ! The sky was crystal clear,
And washed quite clean with rain ;
And tar below my heart stirred with the year,
Stirred with the year and sighed. O pallid feet
Move now at last, O heart that sleeps with pain
Rise up and hear
The voices in the valleys, run to meet
The songs and shadows. O wake up again !

Put out green leaves, dead tree, put out green leaves t
(Last night the moon was soft and kissed the air.)
Put out green leaves ! The moon was in the skies,
All night she wakes and weaves.
The dew was on the grass like fairies' eyes,
Like fairies' eyes. O trees so black and bare,
Remember all the fruits, the full gold sheaves;
For nothing dies,
The songs that are, are silences that were,
Summer was Winter. O put but green leaves!

Break through the earth, pale flower, break through the earth !
(All day the lark has sung a madrigal.)
Break through the earth that lies not lightly yet
And waits thy patient birth,
Waits for the jonquil and the violet,
The violet. Full soon the heavy pall
Will be a bed, and in the noon of mirth
Some rivulet
Will bubble in my wilderness, some call
Will touch my silence. O break through the earth.

poem by Lord Alfred Douglas
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Green New Zealand

I've seen great sights of beauty in my travels
The gold and grey landscapes, the brown and green
But south Pacific Islands of New Zealand
Are beautiful as anywhere I've seen.

I've seen the hills of Sherbrooke east of Melbourne
Where tall mountain ash reach upwards towards the sky
And cool rainforests of northern New South Wales and Queensland
Are memories I can recall and enjoy.

I've seen the high hills of Britain and Ireland
Of such green beauty famous bards have wrote
But I would write a song for green New Zealand
Had I been blessed with gift of rhyming poet.

I've seen the wild brown outback of Australia
It's rugged beauty man could never tame
A different sort of beauty to New Zealand
And no two sorts of beauty seem the same.

I've seen the Catskill mountains in their splendour
When flowers were blooming in the month of May
And birds sang in the leafy mountain woodlands
But that was years ago and far away.

The lush green hills and valleys of New Zealand
As beautiful as I have ever seen
And the Homeland of the kakapo and kiwi
Can compare with to anywhere I've been.

poem by Francis Duggan
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