Oh, mother...[O, mamă...]
Oh, mother, dearest mother, although you passed away,
Through all the leaves that tremble, you call me every day;
Above your holy grave, the autumn gentle breeze
Shakes off the withered boughs of the acacia trees,
Which seem to hum along with your forgotten voice...
You will be sleeping always, they always will rejoice.
The day I die, my darling, for me, please, do not cry
Instead, break from the lime tree a twig scratching the sky
And put it in the ground, somewhere beside my head,
Then wet it at the roots with all the tears you'll shed;
And when it grows, its shadow will be just like a veil...
I shall be sleeping always, its shadow will prevail.
But if we die together – it's possible, who knows? –
They shouldn't put our bodies in graveyards to repose,
But let them dig a hollow somewhere, on open land,
And in a single coffin to put us, hand in hand;
For ever you will settle your head upon my chest...
We shall be sleeping always, the open land will rest.
poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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Related quotes
The Ghost’s Petition
'There's a footstep coming: look out and see,'
'The leaves are falling, the wind is calling;
No one cometh across the lea.'—
'There's a footstep coming; O sister, look.'—
'The ripple flashes, the white foam dashes;
No one cometh across the brook.'—
'But he promised that he would come:
To-night, to-morrow, in joy or sorrow,
He must keep his word, and must come home.
'For he promised that he would come:
His word was given; from earth or heaven,
He must keep his word, and must come home.
'Go to sleep, my sweet sister Jane;
You can slumber, who need not number
Hour after hour, in doubt and pain.
'I shall sit here awhile, and watch;
Listening, hoping, for one hand groping
In deep shadow to find the latch.'
After the dark, and before the light,
One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping,
Who had watched and wept the weary night.
After the night, and before the day,
One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping—
Watching, weeping for one away.
There came a footstep climbing the stair;
Some one standing out on the landing
Shook the door like a puff of air—
Shook the door, and in he passed.
Did he enter? In the room centre
Stood her husband: the door shut fast.
'O Robin, but you are cold—
Chilled with the night-dew: so lily-white you
Look like a stray lamb from our fold.
'O Robin, but you are late:
Come and sit near me—sit here and cheer me.'—
(Blue the flame burnt in the grate.)
'Lay not down your head on my breast:
I cannot hold you, kind wife, nor fold you
In the shelter that you love best.
'Feel not after my clasping hand:
I am but a shadow, come from the meadow
Where many lie, but no tree can stand.
'We are trees which have shed their leaves:
Our heads lie low there, but no tears flow there;
Only I grieve for my wife who grieves.
'I could rest if you would not moan
Hour after hour; I have no power
To shut my ears where I lie alone.
'I could rest if you would not cry;
But there's no sleeping while you sit weeping—
Watching, weeping so bitterly.'—
'Woe's me! woe's me! for this I have heard.
Oh night of sorrow!—oh black to-morrow!
Is it thus that you keep your word?
'O you who used so to shelter me
Warm from the least wind—why, now the east wind
Is warmer than you, whom I quake to see.
'O my husband of flesh and blood,
For whom my mother I left, and brother,
And all I had, accounting it good,
'What do you do there, underground,
In the dark hollow? I'm fain to follow.
What do you do there?—what have you found?'—
'What I do there I must not tell:
But I have plenty: kind wife, content ye:
It is well with us—it is well.
'Tender hand hath made our nest;
Our fear is ended, our hope is blended
With present pleasure, and we have rest.'—
'Oh, but Robin, I'm fain to come,
If your present days are so pleasant;
For my days are so wearisome.
'Yet I'll dry my tears for your sake:
Why should I tease you, who cannot please you
Any more with the pains I take?'
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sleeping Single
Heres the house.
Heres the city and the stream.
Heres the father to my dream.
Heres the lost and lonely look in your eyes.
When you leave I will break down and cry.
Sleeping single -
I will wait for you.
Im sleeping single -
til you change your mind.
Sleeping single -
I will wait for you til time
Has gone by.
Ill pay the price
For all the love you poured like rain
toujours lamour over again,
But the midnight chills are getting so rough
And the bed is big enough for both of us.
Sleeping single -
I would die for you.
Im sleeping single -
Wont you change your way.
Sleeping single -
I will pray for you to stay,
He-he-hey...
He-he-hey...
song performed by by Roxette
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Chanpa Flower
Supposing I became a chanpa flower, just for fun, and grew on a
branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and
danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother?
You would call, "Baby, where are you?" and I should laugh to
myself and keep quite quiet.
I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work.
When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders,
you walked through the shadow of the champ tree to the little court
where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the
flower, but not know that it cane from me.
When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading
ramayana, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap,
I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book,
just where you were reading.
But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your
little child?
When in the evening you went to the cow shed with the lighted
lamp in your hand I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and
be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story.
"Where have you been, you naughty child?"
"I won't tell you, mother." That's what you and I would say
then.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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My Mother
Who sat and watched my infant head
When sleeping on my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?
My Mother.
When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gazed upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
My Mother.
Who taught my infant lips to pray
And love God’s holy book and day,
And walk in wisdom’s pleasant way?
My Mother.
And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who wast so very kind to me,
My Mother?
Ah, no! the thought I cannot bear,
And if God please my life to spare
I hope I shall reward they care,
My Mother.
When thou art feeble, old and grey,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will soothe thy pains away,
My Mother.
poem by Ann Taylor
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Sacred to the Memory of “Unknown”
Oh, the wild black swans fly westward still,
While the sun goes down in glory—
And away o’er lonely plain and hill
Still runs the same old story:
The sheoaks sigh it all day long—
It is safe in the Big Scrub’s keeping—
’Tis the butcher-birds’ and the bell-birds’ song
In the gum where ‘Unknown’ lies sleeping—
(It is heard in the chat of the soldier-birds
O’er the grave where ‘Unknown’ lies sleeping).
Ah! the Bushmen knew not his name or land,
Or the shame that had sent him here—
But the Bushmen knew by the dead man’s hand
That his past life lay not near.
The law of the land might have watched for him,
Or a sweetheart, wife, or mother;
But they bared their heads, and their eyes were dim,
For he might have been a brother!
(Ah! the death he died brought him near to them,
For he might have been a brother.)
Oh, the wild black swans to the westward fade,
And the sunset burns to ashes,
And three times bright on an eastern range
The light of a big star flashes,
Like a signal sent to a distant strand
Where a dead man’s love sits weeping.
And the night comes grand to the Great Lone Land
O’er the grave where ‘Unknown’ lies sleeping,
And the big white stars in their clusters blaze
O’er the Bush where ‘Unknown’ lies sleeping.
poem by Henry Lawson
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A Sleeping Beauty
the sky's beauty
is seen when the world is sleeping
the mind's beauty
is seen when the man is sleeping
the man's beauty
is seen when his fear is sleeping
the life's beauty
is seen when evil is sleeping
the mother's beauty
is seen when your age is sleeping
the wife's beauty
is seen when your right over her is sleeping
THE WORLD'S BEAUTY
IS SEEN WHEN NATIONALISM IS SLEEPING
poem by Samanyan Lakshminarayanan
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Fantasy...
A tree and its shadow
And a dreamy meadow
Waiting for someone....
The Shadow asks ' how is she doing? '
Tree whispers ' shhh! sleeping'
'oops! sorry' says shadow and waits
waiting...they are for the flower that sleeps
on a thin green brunch of the tree
The tree, now drowsy, as sun
Readies itself to set, for the night
and the little shadow? it grows unwatched
With the dimming light
The Tree sleeps,
The meadow sleeps
Huts sleep
and the man inside it
Is in slumber too
Tiny little shadow grows into night
Embraces life with darkness punctured with lights
Dawn Awakes
Sun rays come running back to the tree
Tree asks 'my shadow? where IS he? '
the Tallest palm tree, sky abreast
says 'i think I saw him running northwest! '
The Shadow creeps in and stands upon a pebble
Says ' i wana see...i wana see! ' with boyish charm
Then The flower finally falls
Into shadow's lap
'shh! she's still taking a nap! '
says tree to his friend
Wind blows, it wants to play with her
The sleeping beauty, The flower
'Look! Look! ...she's smiling!
She's happy! she must be dreaming! '
The shadow hushes, excited!
A girl comes out of the hut...
Takes the flower, the sweet, from Shadows lap
What will you do with her, little girl?
She's taking a nap! '
'I'll play with it', the little girl says
The Shadow starts crying
The tree wishpers...
' dont cry dear...let it be...
Tommorrow morning You'll see
Our flower is back with us
On your lap she's lying!
Night comes again
Tree and its shadow sleeps
with Dreamy smiles on their lips
Dawn brings light to the tree and shadow
They wake up and see
Adorned with Dew drops like some rare gems
Their Sweet little flower is back with them!
poem by Saurabh Som
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Dearest Kochi
She sleeps beside me
And breathes into my face
I smell her stale breath
Even that invigorates me.
Everything about her
Simply captivates me
Don’t know whether
I love her like crazy
Or if it is just me
Being a ‘crazy-me’.
She is breathing easy,
Sleeping peacefully…
What greater joy
Can a mother enjoy
Than gazing at her
Sleeping Beauty…
Her dainty, darling daughter
Whom she lovingly calls her
“Dearest Kochi”.
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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William Upson
Air -- "The Major's Only Son"
Come all good people, far and near,
Oh, come and see what you can hear,
It's of a young man, true and brave,
Who is now sleeping in his grave.
Now, William Upson was his name --
If it's not that it's all the same --
He did enlist in the cruel strife,
And it caused him to lose his life.
He was Jesse Upson's eldest son,
His father loved his noble son;
This son was nineteen years of age,
In the rebellion he engaged.
His father said that he might go,
But his dear mother she said no.
"Stay at home, dear Billy," she said,
But oh, she could not turn his head.
For go he would, and go he did --
He would not do as his mother bid,
For he went away down South, there
Where he could not have his mother's care.
He went to Nashville, Tennessee,
There his kind friends he could not see;
He died among strangers, far away,
They knew not where his body lay.
He was taken sick and lived four weeks,
And oh, how his parents weep,
But now they must in sorrow mourn,
Billy has gone to his heaven home.
If his mother could have seen her son,
For she loved him, her darling one,
If she could heard his dying prayer,
It would ease her heart till she met him there.
It would relieved his mother's heart,
To have seen her son from this world depart,
And hear his noble words of love,
As he left this world for that above.
It will relieve his mother's heart,
That her son is laid in our grave yard;
Now she knows that his grave is near,
She will not shed so many tears.
She knows not that it was her son,
His coffin could not be opened --
It might be some one in his place,
For she could not see his noble face.
He enrolled in eighteen sixty-three,
The next day after Christmas eve;
He died in eighteen sixty-four,
Twenty-third of March, as I was told.
poem by Julia A Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Land Called Hope
Far across the sea of suffering
lies, a land called hope
where our dreams lay sleeping
waiting for our wake up call.
We rise and stretch every morning,
hoping to stretch across that sea
and grasp one of our sleeping dreams
from that land called hope.
Each day we fail to reach it
while it is only inches away,
but our day will come.
Our arms will stretch
far within its shore
and pluck one
of our sleeping dreams
from that land called hope.
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mother
My mother
Once was
The centre
On my circle maker
My mother
Once was
The warmth
Around a cold hand
My mother
Once was
The smile
On a pensive face
My mother
Once was
The rule
To run rings around
My mother
Once was
The champion
Of assurance and affection
My mother
Once was
The guide
Through a foreign land
My mother
Is now
The open window
Of a tamed bird
My mother
Will always be
In my heart
And part of me.
poem by Stevie Taite
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Land, Ho!
I know ’tis but a loom of land,
Yet is it land, and so I will rejoice,
I know I cannot hear His voice
Upon the shore, nor see Him stand;
Yet is it land, ho! land.
The land! the land! the lovely land!
‘Far off,’ dost say? Far off—ah, blessèd home!
Farewell! farewell! thou salt sea-foam!
Ah, keel upon the silver sand—
Land, ho! land.
You cannot see the land, my land,
You cannot see, and yet the land is there—
My land, my land, through murky air—
I did not say ’twas close at hand—
But—land, ho! land.
Dost hear the bells of my sweet land,
Dost hear the kine, dost hear the merry birds?
No voice, ’tis true, no spoken words,
No tongue that thou may’st understand—
Yet is it land, ho! land.
It’s clad in purple mist, my land,
In regal robe it is apparellèd,
A crown is set upon its head,
And on its breast a golden band—
Land, ho! land.
Dost wonder that I long for land?
My land is not a land as others are—
Upon its crest there beams a star,
And lilies grow upon the strand—
Land, ho! land.
Give me the helm! there is the land!
Ha! lusty mariners, she takes the breeze!
And what my spirit sees it sees—
Leap, bark, as leaps the thunderbrand—
Land, ho! land.
poem by Thomas Edward Brown
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Come Away
(g.bowser/j.jupp)
Published by chappell & co., ltd. - capac
As I walk along the lonely streets
I cant talk to the people that I meet
I see them come, and I see them go
I see them smile, and say hello
Come with me and take my hand
Ooh, fly away to another land, oh yes we will
Come with me and take my hand
Well fly away to another land
Come over here little girl
And Ill show you another world
Where we can be free to do as we want
Live our lives as we please, and say what we like, oh
Come with me and take my hand, ooh
Well fly away to another land
Come with me and take my hand, oh
And fly away to another land
Theres so many things that remain to be done
And no one has thought of a way to begin
So follow me into my life
Come with me and take my hand (and take...)
Fly away to another land (fly away to another land)
Come with me and take my hand (ooh)
Fly away to another land (fly away to another land)
Come with me and take my hand (take my hand)
Fly away to another land (oh yes we will)
Come with me and take my hand (and take my hand, take my hand)
Fly away to another land (yeah)
Come with me and take my hand
Fly away to another land
Come with me and take my hand
Fly away to another land
song performed by by April Wine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For The Briar-Rose
The Briarwood.
The fateful slumber floats and flows
About the tangle of the rose;
But lo! the fated hand and heart
To rend the slumberous curse apart!
The Council Room.
The threat of war, the hope of peace,
The Kingdom’s peril and increase
Sleep on, and bide the latter day,
When fate shall take her chain away.
The Garden Court.
The maiden pleasance of the land
Knoweth no stir of voice or hand,
No cup the sleeping waters fill,
The restless shuttle lieth still.
The Rosebower.
Here lies the hoarded love, the key
To all the treasure that shall be;
Come fated hand the gift to take,
And smite this sleeping world awake.
poem by William Morris
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Custers Blues
Well you look just like general custer
On the day of his last stand
Heading up into the black hills
Glorious and grand
I saw it by your side
A map in your hand
Heading up into the rain
Singing this land is your land
Now Ive seen your dust a-rising
And Ive seen your numbers swell
Ive seen you crossing the badlands
And Ive heard your captains yell
Ive watched you when youre sleeping
Ive seen you filling up your can
Thinking as you work
That this land is your land
But now youre bursting into my country
Youre messing up my fields
Youre playing games with my holy places
Youre tearing the earth with your wheels
Right now your star is ascending
And your head is bursting with pride
But I wonder if custer was still singing
this land is my land when he died
Was he still singing this is my land when he died
Was he singing that its my land when he died
Was he singing when he died
Was he singing when he died
Was he singing its my land when he died
When he died...
Was he singing when he died
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mother land
Mother is dear and precious,
Not single but reasons various,
Bowing head with mind conscious,
World recognize and hold opinion continuous,
We run to her and seek refuge,
To us she is supreme and huge,
Not a word of dishonour to her honour,
Always she is their in our critical hour,
I would prefer more to serve mother,
Even heaven is offered, I won’t bother,
She always keeps flock together,
Why we go and seek blessings from other,
Mother land is no less sacred,
I lay down life rather tears to shed,
Hold the ground and never fled,
Let whole land cover with blood red,
Mother land is more precious than heaven,
To be defended with odds and even,
Not an inch to be given or bartered,
To her feet thousands of lives to be offered,
Never to question what she did for?
What I could offer in case of war?
If honour and prestige are at stake,
I will not bother about my cake,
Mother and mother land both is supreme,
Preventive steps taken even so extreme,
Nothing can be so holier than her,
I pray and worship her and no to her,
I shall deem it my duty to defend,
May not bother even many to offend,
Shall prefer the place in glorious hell,
But not desert her for self interest well
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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The Garden
(carly simon/jacob brackman)
Come into the garden, its magical trees
Dapple the sun as they sway with each lazy breeze;
Theyll set your mind at ease.
Pretend youre a child, with nothing to hide,
Then well join hands and let the universe swing wide;
Well lay our fears aside
Hold me, here we can soon be born again
Trust me, believe we can still be born again
Weve been sleeping all our lives,
Atleast we can open our eyes.
Our gates are unguarded, Ive stolen the key,
To where everything holy inside us is free to run free;
To smell and taste and touch and see.
Hold me, here we can soon be born again.
Trust me, believe we can still be born again.
Weve been sleeping all our lives,
At last we can open our eyes.
song performed by by Carly Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Forgotten and Left Behind
They are forgotten and left behind
In such a dark shadow no one can reach and find
There contribution and sacrifices for beloved country?
For lots of people to suffer under weight and misery
What more you need from people withy sprit?
They came forward with head in hand and lantern dimly lit?
We all adored at that time and promised heaven
A piece of land to live with peace and dream even
Thousand were sent behind bars to face torture
Bodies were torn apart with cruel wounds from hunter
Salt subbed on the wound to create deadly pain
What were they expected in turn to gain?
It is painful to keep population under subjugation
It is mother land that is occupied with no reason
How can mother be seen daily molested and raped?
It is shameful face daily to be seen and slapped
Thousands more can perish for the holy cause
We have decided and many more may come of course
The garden may blossom any time in future
We must have motherland freed from yokes for sure
Any country would lament the sacrifices made
When ideals and principles are bypassed and bade
What makes them to disregard its people and causes?
Is it mere greed or reckless thinking and sense?
We are aliens today in our own home
Totally neglected and not welcome
What to eat and what not to dream?
A little hut, open space and sun’s beam
We may tolerate little even if that is coming from our own brethren
If they fail to bother about us and pay little concern
We are not slave and yet may not prefer so
If they are same like those of invaders then they too must go
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Smart Dogs
Dancing in youre shadow
I was riding through a different state of mind
No-one can perceive the state Im in
Its like the living world is blind
Its a feeling like no other
Spending easter with youre mother
Darling its a freaky roller coaster ride
Well if you know the feeling baby peel me of the ceiling baby
Did you know planet earth was blue
Turning blue, dont you try to talk to me
Im a space man sitting in the sky
Im a sleeping sweetly honey
Let the sleeping pretty smart dogs lie
Let em fly
Wait until tomorrow
See the summer sun upon the ocean sky
Look at the creator
See the master of magicians fantisise
Its a feeling like no other
Spending easter with youre mother
Darling its a freaky roller coaster ride
Well if you know the feeling baby peel me of the ceiling baby
Did you know planet earth was blue
Turning blue, dont you try to talk to me
Im a space man sitting in the sky
Im a sleeping sweetly honey
Let the sleeping pretty smart dogs lie
Let em fly
song performed by by Kula Shaker
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Master Mariner’s Song
(Outward Bound)
AWAY, away she plunges
With her white sails o’er her spread,
Like the summer clouds that gather
On some hill’s piny head;
Still away she plunges rampant
Like a lion roused to wrath,
And the proud wave lies humbled
I’ the track of her path.
Ye ho! my gallant sailors
Wear her head from off the land:
As his steed obeys the Arab
How she gives to the hand!
And now like a soul the world forsaking,
She leaves the coast behind,
And the main is her wide dwelling
And her spouse is the wind.
Then pledge we a full measure
To the friends we left to-day,
Whose kind wishes hover o’er us
On our watery way:
Where diurnally remind us
Shall the same bright-brimming rite
Of the eyes that yearned blessings
When last we knew their light!
. . . . .
The leaf-glancing boughs of the o’erdoming trees
Now seem in wild dance to the pipe of the breeze
As clashing and clasping in merry despite
They mass into shadow or quiver in light,
When cut by their motion the slanting moonbeam
Falls sifted like coin on the floor of the stream
That murmurs thereby like a voice in a dream,
Save when the breeze straining in lengthen’d escape
Holds open their sprays for a steadier escape,
Then too bright fragment of Night’s ripest blue
Relieving the leaf-work come transiently through,
And broad stars seem glowing as seen amid these
Like apples of fire in the tops of the trees!
poem by Charles Harpur
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