Memories [Amintiri]
In people's mind, however blurred,
Remain the times when they were glad...
So in my soul are always stirred
The memories of what I had;
Here I can see a house so white...
Sweet girls, round dances, butterflies,
Leaves on the trees, flowers and light,
A pure white dove that quickly flies!
I see myself on other shores
A wanderer on foreign plains,
And by blue lakes my heart adores,
With hard black rocks and old remains!
And here I see a lad absorbed,
With a nice woman on his arm...
Their hearts are beating in accord
Discovering the Heaven's charm!
The woods envelop in their shade
A beautiful and precious love
While sun is setting in the glade
Watched by the golden sky above!
O, God, but tell me why, I pray,
When you shed happiness down here
So soon you take it all away
And leave us just a souvenir?
poem by Alexandru Macedonski, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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Related quotes
The Feather Of Yuri
if a dove leaves a feather
white,
pure,
it does not just tell you that
it was once here
it tells you also of another thing
that there is a good reason
for keeping
something like a memory
the sweet one
it does not tell you
to discard pain
but to remember everything
and learn
like you i am not a dove
does not speak the language of doves
does not have feathers
to leave for some people i love
to remember
but i have some pieces of me
some memories
some pieces of my mind and they are not feathers
though they may
like feathers be
light, soft, pure, and beautiful
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Black Woman!
BEAUTIFUL BLACK WOMAN, YOUR SENSUOUS
SPLENDOR IS LIKE THE SHINING SUN YOUR
WONDROUS WAYS COME FROM YOUR SOUL
WHICH NO ONE MAN MAY HOPE TO CONTROL
BEAUTIFUL BLACK WOMAN, YOU ARE THE GUIDING
HOPE OF OUR PEOPLE
BEAUTIFUL BLACK WOMAN, YOUR MIND MAINTAINS
YOUR GLORIOUS POWER
BEAUTIFUL BLACK WOMAN, YOUR SPIRIT IS
LIKE A SHINING CHURCH TOWER WHICH POINTS THE
WAY TO HEAVEN ABOVE AND WHICH
SEEKS TO FIND TRUE LOVE
BEAUTIFUL BLACK WOMAN, YOU ARE THE GUIDING
HOPE OF OUR PEOPLE
BEAUTIFUL BLACK WOMAN, YOUR TIME IS LIKE A
PRECIOUS COMMODITY
BEAUTIFUL BLACK WOMAN, YOUR EBONY WILL IS
STRONG AND FREE SO TAKE YOUR PRECIOUS TIME
AND YOUR DETERMINED WILL AND USE THEM BOTH TO
EMPHASIZE WHAT YOU REALLY FEEL
BEAUTIFUL BLACK WOMAN, YOU ARE THE GUIDING HOPE
OF OUR PEOPLE
BEAUTIFUL BLACK WOMAN, IN YOU LIES OUR FUTURE!
poem by Samuel Newton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Those Days Have Gone!
Under the sky in the nights
Before pure emotions take flight
When people's hearts were snow white
No one ever could hide the light
In trustworthy and honesty were based all the rights
When all hearts were snow white
When for love people could die
When the echoes of people laughter were covered the nights
When With innocence desires were purified people's heart
When no one ever could ban the light
When pride and honesty was precious more than their lives
Ah those day are gone
How they could be found
Only in the old movies behind those screens black and white
Ah those days have gone!
poem by Sossi Khachadourian
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Black And White
Long before you ever saw your chances
You were going to burn this city down
Tired of the fashions and the dances
Tired of the people standing around
Ticking like a bomb in the night
And you knew you were right
Black and white
Blame it on the time it took to leave here
Blame it on the ones who slowed you down
Blame it on the kind of friends you knew here
Blame it on the sickness going 'round
Going round and round in the night
With your heart out of sight
With your world burning bright
Like a moth 'round a light
Black and white
The pictures of a life in flames
Black and white
The picture of a life remains
And the search you half remember
Setting out on at the start
Is burning like an ember in your heart
Time running out time running out
For the fool still asking what his life is about
Time running out time running out
Time running out time running out
Yeah, beyond a shadow of a doubt
Time running out time running out
Tell them that you've gone to find a person
Someone you lost track of long ago
Tell them that it's someone you need worse than
Anybody else you'll ever know
Ticking like a bomb in the night
You were strong, you were light
You were fast, you were bright
Then you were gone in the light
Black and white
The pictures of a life in flames
Black and white
The picture of a life remains
And the high ideals and the promise
You once dressed the future in
Are dancing in the embers with the wind
Time running out time running out
For the fool still asking what his life is about
Time running out time running out
Time running out time running out
Yeah, beyond a shadow of a doubt
Time
song performed by by Jackson Browne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Black & White
Long before you ever saw your chances
You were going to burn this city down
Tired of the fashions and the dances
Tired of the people standing around
Ticking like a bomb in the night
And you knew you were right
Black and white
Blame it on the time it took to leave here
Blame it on the ones who slowed you down
Blame it on the kind of friends you knew here
Blame it on the sickness going round
Going round and round in the night
With your heart out of sight
With your world burning bright
Like a moth round a light
Black and white
The pictures of a life in flames
Black and white
The picture of a life remains
And the search you half remember
Setting out on at the start
Is burning like an ember in your heart
Time running out time running out
For the fool still asking what his life is about
Time running out time running out
Time running out time running out
Yeah, beyond a shadow of a doubt
Time running out time running out
Tell them that youve gone to find a person
Someone you lost track of long ago
Tell them that its someone you need worse than
Anybody else youll ever know
Ticking like a bomb in the night
You were strong, you were light
You were fast, you were bright
Then you were gone in the light
Black and white
The pictures of a life in flames
Black and white
The picture of a life remains
And the high ideals and the promise
You once dressed the future in
Are dancing in the embers with the wind
Time running out time running out
For the fool still asking what his life is about
Time running out time running out
Time running out time running out
Yeah, beyond a shadow of a doubt
Time running out time running out
song performed by by Jackson Browne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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White sparrow
white sparrow you see me standing
you could kill me without landing
your wing is just as long as a man
you are as cold as a snowy day
you have come here from heaven
you must of as you fight my devil's
your feathers turn slowly black with my sin
and yet you stay beautiful as always
my sin is like a ciggerate it will turn you black inside
but you cannot die as you are one in your own
you came from heaven so your holy arent you
god sent you for me so you must do what you must do
my heart was never red nor white but black
i was born with my sin and also that of my kin
but white sparrow you have taken that from me
and now you are dying you turned black whilst i change to white
oh my lord what a sight it must be to see
a boy like me clean of all carrying a bird of sin
i am carrying you white sparrow your heart is no longer cold
and your body no longer white nor wings large
but white sparrow you will not die, no you will not
for you white sparrow you came from heaven for me
when i picked my child's name people laughed you did not
you looked at my child in his cot and nodded now you cant
for white sparrow you dont belong with me not anymore
your must leave for heaven and recover to help others
so farewell white sparrow il missy you my saviour
now go to that sin filled woman and help her
for white sparrow i will look for you as you continue
for white sparrow i will see you in heaven....goodbye
poem by Daniel Laurence
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The Lost Embassy
THE lilies lean to the white, white rose,
The sweet limes send to the blossomed trees,
Soft kisses borne by the golden bees--
And all the world is alive, awake,
And glad to the heart for the summer's sake.
From her tower window the Princess leant,
Where the white light butterflies came and went;
She dropped soft kisses by twos and threes:
'White butterflies mine, will you carry these
To my Prince in prison? for they, who knows,
May break the spell that has held him close
And wake him and win him to stand up free
And laugh--in the sun--with me!'
White lilies, gold in the golden sun,
White Princess, gold in your golden gown--
Far off lies the sad, enchanted town!
Bright wings, light wings, white wings that tire,
Though they carry the flower of the heart's desire--
Will you trust to these, too white, too slight
To bring back the fruit of heart's delight?
All round and about the spell-bound town
The ways are dusty, the woods are brown;
There are no green coverts, no welcoming flowers
For little weary butterfly wings,
No dew, no lilies, no glad live things.
'Neath the sky of steel and the brazen sun
White wings, kiss-laden, dropped one by one:
By twos and threes they dropped by the way,
And only one reached the grim, gray tower
Where, witched from his kingdom, the poor Prince lay--
One poor tired butterfly, smirched and gray
With the dust of the town and the weary way,
And it lit on the Prince's hand and died.
'Bright wings, light wings, white wings,' he cried
'You, only you, might have lived and borne
My prayer to my love in her tower forlorn,
And brought back the kiss that could set me free--
She might have broken the spell that lies
On my foolish heart and my foolish eyes--
But no live butterflies come my way!'
The winds are cold and the skies are gray,
And all the lilies died yesterday;
The Princess leans from her steel-wrought tower
To watch for her butterflies hour by hour.
Poor little Princess, you watch in vain!
Butterflies die where the green wood browns,
And kisses sent to enchanted towns
Never come home again.
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A December Day
Blue, blue is the sea to-day,
Warmly the light
Sleeps on St. Andrews Bay --
Blue, fringed with white.
That's no December sky!
Surely 'tis June
Holds now her state on high,
Queen of the noon.
Only the tree-tops bare
Crowning the hill,
Clear-cut in perfect air,
Warn us that still
Winter, the aged chief,
Mighty in power,
Exiles the tender leaf,
Exiles the flower.
Is there a heart to-day,
A heart that grieves
For flowers that fade away,
For fallen leaves?
Oh, not in leaves or flowers
Endures the charm
That clothes those naked towers
With love-light warm.
O dear St. Andrews Bay,
Winter or Spring
Gives not nor takes away
Memories that cling
All round thy girdling reefs,
That walk thy shore,
Memories of joys and griefs
Ours evermore.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Diana
What are you looking for at night
When moon is shining in the springs
And where the birds in warble fight
Flapping enchanted their wings?
Can't you perceive this nice array
Of leaves that whisper in the glade
And kiss each other and they play
In the refreshing forest's shade?
And like in mirrors moving fast
You want to watch a funny game,
In waters that have come and passed,
While your big eyes remain the same?
The spring has filled the woods again
Reviving everything, in truth,
However, all your thoughts are vain,
Like Endymion's, that fair youth.
Why do you want to be alone
With the low voice of secret source?
To hear the leaves by the wind blown
And sleep on grass, dark green and coarse?
And from that light reaching the glade,
From the cold waves, from shadow's charms,
To rise a fairy, a dear maid,
With big blue eyes and naked arms?
Oh! Now the boughs are bent with care
By little arms, so snowy white,
By a sweet face with yellow hair
On a tall body, slim, upright.
A golden bow makes her complete
And going hunting with much grace
On the innumerable leaves
She barely left a tiny trace.
poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by Octavian Cocoş
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Beautiful Charms on Valentine’s Day
Some say nothing is more romantic and sweet
To say I love you with flowers red, white and pink
Beautiful blooms for the love of your life that brings magic
A beautiful charm that goes with red balloon, cushion bear and chocolate
A shade of two dozen red roses carries passion
Iris and tulips are impressive in their blue tones
Hugs and kisses go with elegant white carnation
Such heart taking showcase of love and romance in fashion
But nothing is more beautiful
Than let the words coming from your heart flow in your mouth
A tender whisper of these magic words “I love you”
Enough to tell your valentine she is all the world for you
poem by Little Star
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In His House Of Standard Things
to make perhaps an impression of what is beautiful
he lets me in his house
he gives me some drinks and he begins to tell me
what indeed is beautiful
he chooses his colors
mostly green with whites embedded like pearls
on blue green seaweeds under a deep blue sea
he chooses the shapes that fit
mostly spherical and embossed
he likes static things like sculptures of the
busts of great men that he adores
light is not as bright as he wants it to be
more of dusks and twilights
for he does need not so much light to make his life visible
he likes the touch of silk and threads
he adores the gentleness of the wind
exquisitely plucked from a dawning breeze
and then after i have seen them all
he asks me to leave
it is a matter of simply having me in
for a showroom
a lecture on what is beautiful
how i wish to be back in that house again
green and white and shades of these two colors
but it is over
and the house has since been flown to the sky
and its doors and windows closed
and the door bell
had since been concealed with a thick wall
and the gate is locked with steel bars
well, for wherever he is
and whether his house was real or not
let me say, (and that i really forgot)
thank you sir
tomorrow, i will build a house of my own
but it will not be green and white
i will choose the pastel orange side of things like the sunset of my life
and some reds and pinks for the love of my life
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Blue flower [Floare albastră]
Have you plunged again in spheres
And in clouds you wanna flee?
How I wish you stayed with me,
You're the soul of all my years.
To no end the sunny rivers
You are piling in your head
Distant plains of which we read
And the sea that's dark and quivers.
The old pyramids are charming
Point directly to the sky
You don't need to search so high
For your happiness, my darling!
This is what the girlie said
Gently playing with my hair
Oh! she said a truth so rare;
And I laughed and shook my head.
– Come, the woods are full of peace
And the springs flow down the vale
While the rock's about to fail
In the stately precipice.
In the glade, with our dreams
Near the lake, like a blue screen,
And beneath the reed so green
We shall lie on berry leaves.
There you'll tell me many stories
And a lot of lies I feel
I shall snatch a chamomile
Trying to dismiss my worries.
And the sun will be so violent
And I'll be so red and fair
I shall loose my golden hair
For a while to make you silent.
If you want to kiss my lips
No one in the world will know
Cause we're lying here below
And who cares you've touched my hips?
When we see while looking back
The big moon with all its charm
You will hold me by the arm
I will jump around your neck.
And beneath the trees like towers
To the village we shall go
Our kisses then will flow
As sweet as the hidden flowers.
And arriving at the gate
In the darkness we shall chatter
This is not something to matter
Who cares that my love is great?
One last kiss and left me sour
Didn't know what I was feeling
How insane and how appealling
Was my sweet and blue, blue flower!
* * *
Off you went and my eyes burned
And our love died in an hour
Blue, blue flower, blue, blue flower!...
There is sadness in the world!
poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by Octavian Cocoş
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The Recluse
A fountain issuing into light
Before a marble palace, threw
To heaven its column, pure and bright,
Returning thence in showers of dew;
But soon a humbler course it took,
And glide away a nameless brook.
Flowers on its grassy margin sprang,
Flies o'er its eddying surface play'd,
Birds 'midst the alder-branches sang,
Flocks through the verdant meadows stray'd;
The weary there lay down to rest,
And there the halcyon built her nest.
'Twas beautiful to stand and watch
The fountain's crystal turn to gems,
And from the sky such colours catch
As if 'twere raining diadems;
Yet all was cold and curious art,
That charm'd the eye, but miss'd the heart.
Dearer to me the little stream
Whose unimprison'd waters run,
Wild as the changes of a dream,
By rock and glen, through shade and sun.
Its lovely links had power to bind
In welcome chains my wandering mind.
So thought I when I saw the face
By happy portraiture reveal'd
Of one adorn'd with every grace,
Her name and date from me conceal'd,
But not her story; she had been
The pride of many a splendid scene.
She cast her glory round a court,
And frolick'd in the gayest ring,
Where fashion's high-born minions sport
Like sparkling fire-flies on the wing;
But thence when love had touch'd her soul,
To nature and to truth she stole.
From din, and pageantry, and strife,
'Midst woods and mountains, vales and plains,
She treads the paths of lowly life,
Yet in a bosom-circle reigns,
No fountain scattering diamond-showers,
But the sweet streamlet watering flowers.
poem by James Montgomery
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Little Black Boy
My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O! my soul is white
White as an angel is the English child:
But I am black as if bereav'd of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree
And sitting down before the heat of day
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And pointing to the east began to say:
Look on the rising sun: there God does live
And gives his light, and gives his heat away
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning joy in the noonday.
And we are put on earth a little space
That we may learn to bear the beams of love.
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove,
For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear
The cloud will vanish we shall hear his voice,
Saying: come out from the grove my love & care
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.
Thus did my mother say and kissed me.
And thus I say to little English boy.
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy:
I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our fathers knee.
And then I’ll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him and he will then love me.
poem by William Blake from Songs of Innocence (1789)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Camp of Souls
1 My white canoe, like the silvery air
2 O'er the River of Death that darkly rolls
3 When the moons of the world are round and fair,
4 I paddle back from the 'Camp of Souls.'
5 When the wishton-wish in the low swamp grieves
6 Come the dark plumes of red 'Singing Leaves.'
7 Two hundred times have the moons of spring
8 Rolled over the bright bay's azure breath
9 Since they decked me with plumes of an eagle's wing,
10 And painted my face with the 'paint of death,'
11 And from their pipes o'er my corpse there broke
12 The solemn rings of the blue 'last smoke.'
13 Two hundred times have the wintry moons
14 Wrapped the dead earth in a blanket white;
15 Two hundred times have the wild sky loons
16 Shrieked in the flush of the golden light
17 Of the first sweet dawn, when the summer weaves
18 Her dusky wigwam of perfect leaves.
19 Two hundred moons of the falling leaf
20 Since they laid my bow in my dead right hand
21 And chanted above me the 'song of grief'
22 As I took my way to the spirit land;
23 Yet when the swallow the blue air cleaves
24 Come the dark plumes of red 'Singing Leaves.'
25 White are the wigwams in that far camp,
26 And the star-eyed deer on the plains are found;
27 No bitter marshes or tangled swamp
28 In the Manitou's happy hunting-ground!
29 And the moon of summer forever rolls
30 Above the red men in their 'Camp of Souls.'
31 Blue are its lakes as the wild dove's breast,
32 And their murmurs soft as her gentle note;
33 As the calm, large stars in the deep sky rest,
34 The yellow lilies upon them float;
35 And canoes, like flakes of the silvery snow,
36 Thro' the tall, rustling rice-beds come and go.
37 Green are its forests; no warrior wind
38 Rushes on war trail the dusk grove through,
39 With leaf-scalps of tall trees mourning behind;
40 But South Wind, heart friend of Great Manitou,
41 When ferns and leaves with cool dews are wet,
42 Bows flowery breaths from his red calumet.
43 Never upon them the white frosts lie,
44 Nor glow their green boughs with the 'paint of death';
45 Manitou smiles in the crystal sky,
46 Close breathing above them His life-strong breath;
47 And He speaks no more in fierce thunder sound,
48 So near is His happy hunting-ground.
49 Yet often I love, in my white canoe,
50 To come to the forests and camps of earth:
51 'Twas there death's black arrow pierced me through;
52 'Twas there my red-browed mother gave me birth;
53 There I, in the light of a young man's dawn,
54 Won the lily heart of dusk 'Springing Fawn.'
55 And love is a cord woven out of life,
56 And dyed in the red of the living heart;
57 And time is the hunter's rusty knife,
58 That cannot cut the red strands apart:
59 And I sail from the spirit shore to scan
60 Where the weaving of that strong cord began.
61 But I may not come with a giftless hand,
62 So richly I pile, in my white canoe,
63 Flowers that bloom in the spirit land,
64 Immortal smiles of Great Manitou.
65 When I paddle back to the shores of earth
66 I scatter them over the white man's hearth.
67 For love is the breath of the soul set free;
68 So I cross the river that darkly rolls,
69 That my spirit may whisper soft to thee
70 Of thine who wait in the 'Camp of Souls.'
71 When the bright day laughs, or the wan night grieves,
72 Come the dusky plumes of red 'Singing Leaves.'
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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Seven Years Old
I.
SEVEN white roses on one tree,
Seven white loaves of blameless leaven,
Seven white sails on one soft sea,
Seven white swans on one lake’s lee,
Seven white flowerlike stars in heaven,
All are types unmeet to be
For a birthday’s crown of seven.
II.
Not the radiance of the roses,
Not the blessing of the bread,
Not the breeze that ere day grows is
Fresh for sails and swans, and closes
Wings above the sun’s grave spread,
When the starshine on the snows is
Sweet as sleep on sorrow shed,
III.
Nothing sweetest, nothing best,
Holds so good and sweet a treasure
As the love wherewith once blest
Joy grows holy, grief takes rest,
Life, half tired with hours to measure,
Fills his eyes and lips and breast
With most light and breath of pleasure
IV.
As the rapture unpolluted,
As the passion undefiled,
By whose force all pains heart-rooted
Are transfigured and transmuted,
Recompensed and reconciled,
Through the imperial, undisputed,
Present godhead of a child.
V.
Brown bright eyes and fair bright head,
Worth a worthier crown than this is,
Worth a worthier song instead,
Sweet grave wise round mouth, full fed
With the joy of love, whose bliss is
More than mortal wine and bread,
Lips whose words are sweet as kisses,
VI.
Little hands so glad of giving,
Little heart so glad of love,
Little soul so glad of living,
While the strong swift hours are weaving
Light with darkness woven above,
Time for mirth and time for grieving,
Plume of raven and plume of dove,
VII.
I can give you but a word
Warm with love therein for leaven,
But a song that falls unheard
Yet on ears of sense unstirred
Yet by song so far from heaven,
Whence you came the brightest bird,
Seven years since, of seven times seven.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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From Spring Days to Winter (For Music)
In the glad springtime when leaves were green,
O merrily the throstle sings!
I sought, amid the tangled sheen,
Love whom mine eyes had never seen,
O the glad dove has golden wings!
Between the blossoms red and white,
O merrily the throstle sings!
My love first came into my sight,
O perfect vision of delight,
O the glad dove has golden wings!
The yellow apples glowed like fire,
O merrily the throstle sings!
O Love too great for lip or lyre,
Blown rose of love and of desire,
O the glad dove has golden wings!
But now with snow the tree is grey,
Ah, sadly now the throstle sings!
My love is dead: ah! well-a-day,
See at her silent feet I lay
A dove with broken wings!
Ah, Love! ah, Love! that thou wert slain -
Fond Dove, fond Dove return again!
poem by Oscar Wilde
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Spirit of Poetry, The
There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows;
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid
The silent majesty of these deep woods,
lts presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind.
And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill
The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,
My busy fancy oft embodies it,
As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets. Within her tender eye
The heaven of April, with its changing light,
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair
Is like the summer tresses of the trees,
When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,
It is so like the gentle air of Spring,
As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy
To have it round us, and her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Earlier Poems : The Spirit Of Poetry
There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows;
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandalled Eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid
The silent majesty of these deep woods,
lts presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind.
And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill
The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,
My busy fancy oft embodies it,
As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets. Within her tender eye
The heaven of April, with its changing light,
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair
Is like the summer tresses of the trees,
When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,
It is so like the gentle air of Spring,
As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy
To have it round us, and her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Love
Love is the sunlight of the soul,
That, shining on the silken-tressèd head
Of her we love, around it seems to shed
A golden angel-aureole.
And all her ways seem sweeter ways
Than those of other women in that light:
She has no portion with the pallid night,
But is a part of all fair days.
Joy goes where she goes, and good dreams—
Her smile is tender as an old romance
Of Love that dies not, and her soft eye’s glance
Like sunshine set to music seems.
Queen of our fate is she, but crowned
With purple hearts-ease for her womanhood.
There is no place so poor where she has stood
But evermore is holy ground.
An angel from the heaven above
Would not be fair to us as she is fair:
She holds us in a mesh of silken hair,
This one sweet woman whom we love.
We pray thee, Love, our souls to steep
In dreams wherein thy myrtle flowereth;
So when the rose leaves shiver, feeling Death
Pass by, we may remain asleep:
Asleep, with poppies in our hands,
From all the world and all its cares apart—
Cheek close to cheek, heart beating against heart,
While through Life’s sandglass run the sands
poem by Victor James Daley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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