Philomel in London
Not within a granite pass,
Dim with flowers and soft with grass--
Nay, but doubly, trebly sweet
In a poplared London street,
While below my windows go
Noiseless barges, to and fro,
Through the night's calm deep,
Ah! what breaks the bonds of sleep?
No steps on the pavement fall,
Soundless swings the dark canal;
From a church-tower out of sight
Clangs the central hour of night.
Hark! the Dorian nightingale!
Pan's voice melted to a wail!
Such another bird
Attic Tereus never heard.
Hung above the gloom and stain--
London's squalid cope of pain--
Pure as starlight, bold as love,
Honouring our scant poplar-grove,
That most heavenly voice of earth
Thrills in passion, grief or mirth,
Laves our poison'd air
Life's best song-bath crystal-fair.
While the starry minstrel sings
Little matters what he brings,
Be it sorrow, be it pain,
Let him sing and sing again,
Till, with dawn, poor souls rejoice,
Wakening, once to hear his voice,
Ere afar he flies,
Bound for purer woods and skies.
poem by Edmund William Gosse
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Sing To Me
Sing to me! Something of sunlight and bloom,
I am so compassed with sorrow and gloom,
I am so sick with the world’s noisse and strife, -
Sing of the beauty and brightness of life –
Sing to me, sing to me!
Sing to me! Something that’s jubilant, glad!
I am so weary, my soul so sad.
All my earth riches are covered with rust,
All my bright dreams are but ashes and dust.
Sing to me, sing to me!
Sing og the blossoms that open in spring,
How the sweet flowers blow, and the long lichens cling,
Say, though the winter is round about me,
There are bright summers and springs yet to be.
Sing to me, sing to me!
Sing me a song full of hope and of truth,
Brimming with all the sweet fancies of youth!
Say, though my sorrow I may not forget,
I have not quite done with happiness yet.
Sing to me, sing to me!
Lay your soft fingers just here, on my cheek;
Turn the light lower – there- no, do not speak,
But sing! My heart thrills at your beautiful voice;
Sing till I turn from my grief and rejoice.
Sing to me, sing to me!
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Let Us Pray
(words & music by b. kaye - b. weisman)
Come praise the lord for he is good
Mmm come join in love and brotherhood
Well hear the word and bring our gifts of bread and wine
And well be blessed beneath the sign
So let us pray together, pray together
Pray with the one mighty voice (heavenly voice)
And let us sing together, sing together
Pray and well rejoice (well rejoice)
When strangers reach out for your hand (for your hand)
Respond to them and understand (heaven obeyed to understand)
Well rise as one to calm the storm outside the gate (calm the storm)
With faith in him well never leave (never leave)
So let us pray together, pray together
Pray with the one mighty voice (heavenly voice)
And let us sing together, sing together
Pray and well rejoice (well rejoice)
(well rejoice)
The love of God is on our side (love is, love is on our side)
We have the strength to move the tide (well move the tide)
The world will say so, therell be peace and love for all (love for all)
And we must give our brothers love
So let us pray together, pray together
Pray with the one mighty voice (heavenly voice)
And let us sing together, sing together
Pray and well rejoice (well rejoice)
Love for all, love for all to the lord
Well rejoice love for all to the lord
Well rejoice love for all to the lord
Well rejoice for the lord
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What Bird So Sings
What bird so sings, yet so does wail,
'Tis Philomel the Nightingale;
Jug, jug, jug, tereu she cries,
And hating earth, to heaven she flies.
Ha, ha, hark, hark, the Cuckoos sing
Cuckoo, to welcome in the Spring.
Brave prick-song; who is't now we hear!
'Tis the Lark's silver lir-a-lir:
Chirrup, the Sparrow flies away;
For he fell to't ere break of day.
Ha, ha, hark hark; the Cuckoos sing
Cuckoo, to welcome in the Spring
poem by Thomas Dekker
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Evensong
It is late, on a cold, dark, wintry afternoon;
Up high in a tree, a small bird merrily croons.
Trade in the town, has now begun to wind down,
And taking centre stage, is the bird’s sweet sound.
Like an operatic singer, his voice soars high,
And his song delights many, as they pass by.
Your ears can not help, but hear his loud call,
As the sun, once again, sets and darkness falls.
He sings for joy, at the very top of his voice;
To listen to his song, you have little choice.
He sits at the very top of the tallest tree,
Singing so loudly; his heart full of glee.
His plaintive call pierces the cool air,
As he sings his song, without a care.
A pure quality, his sweet song holds,
And he sings it out, so bright and bold.
His singsong attracts many a nice comment;
His performance appears to be Heaven sent.
Of his captivated audience, he is unaware;
His song boasts beauty, beyond compare.
Like a church choir, as they sing evensong,
This small bird sings so very keen and strong.
Through the dark streets, home, I wearily wind;
Sad to be leaving the bird’s sweet song behind.
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Spring Dirge
A child came singing through the dusty town
A song so sweet that all men stayed to hear,
Forgetting for a space their ancient fear
Of evil days and death and fortune’s frown.
She sang of Winter dead and Spring new-born
In the green fields beyond the far hills’ bound;
And how this fair Spring, coming blossom-crowned,
Would cross the city’s threshold on the morn.
And each caged bird in every house anigh,
Even as she sang, caught up the glad refrain
Of Love and Hope and fair days come again,
Till all who heard forgot they had to die.
And all the ghosts of buried woes were laid
That heard the song of this sweet sorceress;
The Past grew to a dream of old distress,
And merry were the hearts of man and maid.
So, at the first faint blush of tender dawn,
Spring stole with noiseless steps through the gray gloom,
And men knew only by a strange perfume
That she had softly entered and withdrawn.
But ah! the lustre of her violet eyes
Was dimmed with tears for her sweet singing maid,
Whose voice would sound no more in shine or shade
To charm men’s souls at set of sun or rise.
For there, with dews of dawn upon her hair,
Like a fair flower plucked and flung away,
Dead in the street the little maiden lay
Who gave new life to hearts nigh dead of care.
Alas! must this be still the bitter doom
Awaiting those, the finer-souled of earth,
Who make for men a morning song of mirth
While yet the birds are dumb amid the gloom?
They walk on thorny ways with feet unshod,
Sing one last song, and die as that song dies.
There is no human hand to close their eyes,
And very heavy is the hand of God.
poem by Victor James Daley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sing Me to Sleep…
After a long, long day,
All I want to hear is your voice,
Your soothing, calming voice,
Sing me to sleep,
My bird,
Sing me to sleep,
Let me bask in your music’s light,
For after a long, long day
Sleep still won’t come,
All I want to hear is your sweet bird song,
You song of love and sorrow,
Written just for me,
Sing me to sleep…
poem by Sage M. Gold
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Two Sonnets
I
"Why are your songs all wild and bitter sad
As funeral dirges with the orphans' cries?
Each night since first the world was made hath had
A sequent day to laugh it down the skies.
Chant us a glee to make our hearts rejoice,
Or seal in silence this unmanly moan."
My friend, I have no power to rule my voice --
A spirit lifts me where I lie alone,
And thrills me into song by its own laws;
That which I feel, but seldom know, indeed
Tempering the melody it could not cause.
The bleeding heart cannot forever bleed
Inwardly solely; on the wan lips, too,
Dark blood will bubble ghastly into view.
II
Striving to sing glad songs, I but attain
Wild discords sadder than Grief's saddest tune;
As if an owl with his harsh screech should strain
To over-gratulate a thrush of June.
The nightingale upon its thorny spray
Finds inspiration in the sullen dark;
The kindling dawn, the world-wide joyous day
Are inspiration to the soaring lark;
The seas are silent in the sunny calm,
Their anthem surges in the tempest boom;
The skies outroll no solemn thunder psalm
Till they have clothed themselves with clouds of gloom.
My mirth can laugh and talk, but cannot sing;
My grief finds harmonies in everything.
poem by James Thomson
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Mama, sing for Me
Mama, sing for me...
Mama, sing for me
Your voice, is the melody to my ear
Your voice, is like the singing birds
When I feel down
Your voice, rise me up
Mama, sing for me
When life doesn't turns out to be right.
Mama, sing for me
One last time.
Your voice, put me to sleep
Your voice is
My soul
My life,
My spirits
When I hear you sing
There's no need to be fear
There's no need to be worried
I'm alive because of your voice
So, sing for me
Sing for me one last time.
Mama, sing for me
Let me hear your voice one last time
You can't go now mama
You were the path of my life
Come back to me
You can't go forever
Mama, sings for me one last time
That's all that i want
Mama, sing for me...
poem by Guenael Oristel
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Hear Your Voice
To hear you voice, brings warmth
the soft tone and the sexy accent
the elegant sound of words together
make the heart pitter patter
your whisper brings goosebumps of love
from a father to hear you talk reminds me
of how your voice cares, like your beauty
to call and hear your voice brings joy of love
picturing you near and by my side
how comfort you voice makes me
to hear you sing is a angel from heaven
the laughter is joy of humor we make
the tears brings crackles to your sound
breaks my heart to it so.
saying I Love You returns your smiles
whisper to me how you feel
I need to hear the voice of love and joy
sweet voice of yours make the world turn
poem by Michael Peterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Penitent's Return
My father's house once more,
In its own moonlight beauty! yet around,
Something, amidst the dewy calm profound,
Broods, never marked before!
Is it the brooding night?
Is it the shivery creeping on the air,
That makes the home, so tranquil and so fair,
O'erwhelming to my sight?
All solemnised it seems,
And still'd, and darkness in each time-worn hue,
Since the rich clustering roses met my view,
As now, by starry gleams.
And this high elm, where last
I stood and linger'd - where my sisters made
Our mother's bower, - I deem'd not that it cast
So far and dark a shade!
How spirit-like a tone
Sighs through yon tree! my father's place was there
At evening hours, while soft winds waved his hair!
Now those gray locks are gone!
My soul grows faint with fear!
E'en as if angel-steps had mark'd the sod,
I tremble where I move,-the voice of God
Is in the foliage here!
Is it indeed the night
That makes my home so awful! faithless hearted,
'Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed
The in-born gladdening light!
No outward thing is changed;
Only the joy of purity is fled,
And, long from nature's melodious estranged,
Thou hear'st their tones with dread.
Therefore, the calm abode
By the dark spirit is o'erhung with shade,-
And therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God
Makes thy sick heart afraid!
The night-flowers round that door,
Still breathe pure fragrance on th' untainted air,
Thou, thou alone, art worthy now no more
To pass and rest thee there!
And must I turn away?
Hark, hark! it is my mother's voice I hear,
Sadder than once it seem'd, yet soft and clear -
Doth she not seem to pray?
My name!-I caught the sound!
Oh! blessed tone of love - the deep, the mild,-
Mother, my mother! now receive thy child;
Take back the lost and found.
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Poet To Be Yet
NOT he who sings smooth songs that soothe—
Sweet opiates that lull asleep
The sorrow that would only weep;
There are some spirit-stains so deep
That only tears may wash away.
Not he whose lays thrill fiercely till
The soul is sick with surfeiting,
Such passion flies, and leaves its sting,
Till through the body quivering
The wearied dull pain throbs again.
Not he whose glad voice says “Rejoice!”
For whom no clouds o'ercast the sky;
Whose god is in his heaven so high
That this dull world he come not nigh:
Life is no sun-kissed optimist!
But he who Sorrow's presence knows,
Who hears the minor chords beneath
The song of life, and feels the breath
Upon his cheek of quiet death,
Yet stirs and sings of life and love.
Who in his suffering yet can sing;
With that calm pathos in his face—
The hopeless yearning of the race—
Can chant the faith that holds its place,
Upsurging through each sore heart's speech;
Who, though his heart bleed, onward leads;
Who knows eternal is our quest,
Yet bids us toil and strive—not rest—
Who looks life o'er and takes its best—
This is the poet to be yet!
poem by Arthur Henry Adams
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The Dead Butterfly
Farewell, poor little winged flower,
Thy joyous life is o'er;
Thy sisters of the meadow now
Shall welcome thee no more;
Those pinions that in liquid air
Like sunbeams shone afar,
Now bruised, and dim, and motionless,
As leaves in autumn are.
Hark! summer sends her voice of love
Through all the gladsome earth,
And bird and insect echo her
In many a song of mirth;
But thou wilt never hear again
The zephyr's balmy sighs,
Nor kiss away the crystal tears
From drooping violet's eyes.
Oh! when o'er valley, hill, and grove,
The moonbeams glisten bright,
And all the fairy train come forth,
To dance away the night,
Mayst thou, poor little butterfly,
Among that elfin band,
Sport in the ever-blooming bowers
Of far-off fairy-land.
poem by Peter John Allan
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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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Trico's Song
What bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O 'tis the ravish'd nightingale.
Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu! she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! Who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor robin redbreast tunes his note!
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing
Cuckoo! to welcome in the spring!
Cuckoo! to welcome in the spring!
Spring's Welcome
WHAT bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O 'tis the ravish'd nightingale.
Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu! she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! Who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor robin redbreast tunes his note!
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing
Cuckoo! to welcome in the spring!
Cuckoo! to welcome in the spring!
What Bird So Sings, Yet So Does Wail?
What bird so sings, yet so does wail?
Oh, 'tis the ravished nightingale.
Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu, she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! Who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
How at heaven's gates she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor robin redbreast tunes his note;
Hark how the jolly cuckoos sing
Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring,
Cuckoo, to welcome in the spring.
The Watcher on the Tower
I
The Voice of a Man
WHAT of the Night, O Watcher?
The Voice of a Woman
Yea, what of it?
The Watcher
A star has risen; and a wind blows strong.
Voice of the Man
The Night is dark.
The Watcher
But God is there above it.
Voice of the Woman
The Night is dark; the Night is dark and long.
II
Voice of the Man
What of the Night, O Watcher?
Voice of the Woman
Night of sorrow!
The Watcher
Out of the East there comes a sound, like song.
Voice of the Man
The Night is dark.
The Watcher
Have courage! There’s To-morrow!
Voice of the Woman
The Night is dark; the Night is dark and long.
III
Voice of the Man
What of the Night, O Watcher?
Voice of the Woman
Is it other?
The Watcher
I see a gleam; a thorn of light; a thong.
Voice of the Man
The Night is dark.
The Watcher
The Morning comes, my Brother.
Voice of the Woman
The Night is dark; the Night is dark and long.
IV
Voice of the Man
What now, what now, O Watcher?
The Watcher
Red as slaughter
The Darkness dies. The Light comes swift and strong.
Voice of the Man
The Night was long.—What sayest thou, my Daughter?
Voice of the Woman
The Night was dark; the Night was dark and long.
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Hear Your Voice
Out of the lonely blue
U went away and left me
(I... I hear your voice)
Without, without one single word
(I... I hear your voice)
Night after night like a ghost from the past
(I... I hear your voice calling in the night)
Your voice is all I heard
I cant take it, baby (I...)
Dont let me die like this
I remember just like it was yesterday
I woke up, baby, and U were gone
I didnt even wanna carry myself up outta bed
Let alone, I didnt wanna carry on
Cuz I could hear (I hear your voice calling in the night)
I cant stop it no matter how hard I try
I can hear (I hear your sound calling in the dark)
In a word, I feel like I wanna die
I started lookin, lookin from dusk till dawn
4 ways that I wouldnt miss U so much (I hear your voice)
I even bought a new dress, uh, but when I put it on
I could still, huh, still feel your touch
And I can hear (I hear your voice calling in the night)
I cant stop it no matter how hard I try
I can hear (I hear your sound calling in the dark)
In a word, I feel like I wanna die (I...)
My friends tell me that I need a new love
A bird in hand beats 2 in the bush (I hear your voice)
What my friends dont know, huh, and I aint about 2 tellem
Is that Ure the only bird, Ure the only one who knows what buttons 2 push
It dont take no scientist 2 tell U whats wrong with me
It dont take good vision, huh, 2 see what any fool could see
(I hear your voice calling in the night)
That I just need your body, I just need your f-f-face
Right where it counts - no, not in another place
(I hear your voice calling in the night)
Im talkin about all up, talkin about all down
Every inch, U see? I dont need U cross town
U better read my lips, I need it here with me
I cant stop it no matter how I try
(I hear your sound calling in the dark)
In a word, I feel like I wanna die
(I hear your voice)
I cant take it, baby
(I hear your voice)
Dont let me die like this
No!
I... I hear your voice {x2}
I... I hear your voice calling in the night
I
song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Lesson
MY cot was down by a cypress grove,
And I sat by my window the whole night long,
And heard well up from the deep dark wood
A mocking-bird's passionate song.
And I thought of myself so sad and lone,
And my life's cold winter that knew no spring;
Of my mind so weary and sick and wild,
Of my heart too sad to sing.
But e'en as I listened the mock-bird's song,
A thought stole into my saddened heart,
And I said, 'I can cheer some other soul
By a carol's simple art.'
For oft from the darkness of hearts and lives
Come songs that brim with joy and light,
As out of the gloom of the cypress grove
The mocking-bird sings at night.
So I sang a lay for a brother's ear
In a strain to soothe his bleeding heart,
And he smiled at the sound of my voice and lyre,
Though mine was a feeble art.
But at his smile I smiled in turn,
And into my soul there came a ray:
In trying to soothe another's woes
Mine own had passed away.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Go Away Nightingale
Who is this that wake
me up before dawn,
with songs as of those
that mourn?
Oh, nightingale.
Go.
Go away
Go away,
to the old that is
nigh unto death.
Your song beseem them.
Go away.
To the crowd beneath
the earth.
They need a shallow friend.
Go away.
your sonorous voice
do not befit a good day.
You sing to me at night.
You sing to me before dawn.
Go away
For when i need you to sing,
you are always on flight.
poem by Enebeli Ifyprada
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