Ulalume
(e.a.poe)
Jeff performed a reading of this poem by edgar allan poe for the tribute compilation closed on account of rabies, produced by hal willner.
The skies were ashen and sober,
The leaves they were crisped and sere,
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome october
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of auber,
In the misty mid region of weir,
It was down by the dank tarn of auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of weir.
Here once, through an alley, titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my soul,
Of cypress, with psyche, my soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll,
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down yaaneck
In the ultimate climes of the pole,
That groan as they roll down mount yaaneck
In the realms of the boreal pole.
Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere,
Our memories were treacherous and sere,
For we knew not the month was october,
And we marked not the night of the year
(ah, night of all nights in the year!);
We noted not the dim lake of auber
(though once we had journeyed down here),
Remembered not the dank tarn of auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of weir.
And now, as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn,
As the star-dials hinted of morn,
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn
Astartes bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.
And I said: she is warmer than dian;
She rolls through an ether of sighs,
She reveals in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the lion,
To point us the path to the skies,
To the lethean peace of the skies;
Come up, in despite of the lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes,
Come up through the lair of the lion,
With love in her luminous eyes.
But psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said: sadly this star I mistrust,
Her pallor I strangely mistrust;
Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly! let us fly! for we must.
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust;
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust,
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
I replied: this is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its sibyllic splendor is beaming
With hope and in beauty to-night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright;
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to heaven through the night.
Thus I pacified psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom,
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb,
By the door of a legended tomb,
And I said:what is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?
She replied: ulalume! ulalume!
tis the vault of thy lost ulalume!
Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sere,
As the leaves that were withering and sere,
And I cried: it was surely october
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed, I journeyed down here,
That I brought a dread burden down here,
Of this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of auber,
This misty mid region of weir,
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of weir.
Said we, then--the two, then--ah, can it
Have been that the woodlandish ghouls
The pitiful, the merciful ghouls
To bar up our way and to ban it
From the secret that lies in these wolds
From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds
Had drawn up the spectre of a planet
From the limbo of lunary souls
This sinfully scintillant planet
From the hell of the planetary souls?
song performed by by Jeff Buckley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
To -- -- --. Ulalume: A Ballad
The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere-
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir-
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
Here once, through an alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul-
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
There were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll-
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole-
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.
Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere-
Our memories were treacherous and sere-
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year-
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber-
(Though once we had journeyed down here),
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
And now, as the night was senescent,
And star-dials pointed to morn-
As the star-dials hinted of morn-
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn-
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.
And I said- 'She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs-
She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion,
To point us the path to the skies-
To the Lethean peace of the skies-
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes-
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes.'
But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said- 'Sadly this star I mistrust-
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:-
Oh, hasten!- oh, let us not linger!
Oh, fly!- let us fly!- for we must.'
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust-
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust-
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
I replied- 'This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybilic splendor is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty to-night:-
See!- it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright-
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.'
Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom-
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb-
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said- 'What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?'
She replied- 'Ulalume- Ulalume-
'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!'
Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sere-
As the leaves that were withering and sere-
And I cried- 'It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed- I journeyed down here-
That I brought a dread burden down here-
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber-
This misty mid region of Weir-
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.'
poem by Edgar Allan Poe
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The New 'Ulalume
The skies they were ashen and sober,
The leaves they were crisped and sere,
' ' ' withering ' '
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
' ' down ' ' dark tarn ' '
In the misty mid region of Weir,
' ' ghoul-haunted woodland ' '
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Surrender II
THE wild wind wails in the poplar tree,
I sit here alone.
O heart of my heart, come hither to me!
Come to me straight over land and sea,
My soul--my own!
Not now--the clock's slow tick I hear,
And nothing more.
The year is dying, the leaves are sere,
No ghost of the beautiful young crowned year
Knocks at my door.
But one of these nights, a wild, late night,
I, waiting within,
Shall hear your hand on the latch--and spite
Of prudence and folly and wrong and right,
I shall let you in.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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New Year's Morning
Only a night from old to new!
Only a night, and so much wrought!
The Old Year's heart all weary grew,
But said: The New Year rest has brought."
The Old Year's hopes its heart laid down,
As in a grave; but trusting, said:
"The blossoms of the New Year's crown
Bloom from the ashes of the dead."
The Old Year's heart was full of greed;
With selfishness it longed and ached,
And cried: "I have not half I need.
My thirst is bitter and unslaked.
But to the New Year's generous hand
All gifts in plenty shall return;
True love it shall understand;
By all y failures it shall learn.
I have been reckless; it shall be
Quiet and calm and pure of life.
I was a slave; it shall go free,
And find sweet pace where I leave strife."
Only a night from old to new!
Never a night such changes brought.
The Old Year had its work to do;
No New Year miracles are wrought.
Always a night from old to new!
Night and the healing balm of sleep!
Each morn is New Year's morn come true,
Morn of a festival to keep.
All nights are sacred nights to make
Confession and resolve and prayer;
All days are sacred days to wake
New gladness in the sunny air.
Only a night from old to new;
Only a sleep from night to morn.
The new is but the old coem true;
Each sunrise sees a new year born.
poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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The New-Year Babe
Two together, Babe and Year,
At the midnight chime,
Through the darkness drifted here
To the coast of Time.
Two together, Babe and Year,
Over night and day,
Crossed the desert Winter drear
To the land of May.
On together, Babe and Year
Swift to Summer passed.
'Rest a moment, Brother dear,'
Said the Babe at last.
'Nay, but onward,' answered Year,
'We must farther go,
Through the Vale of Autumn sere
To the Mount of Snow.'
Toiling upward, Babe and Year
Climbed the frozen height.
'We may rest together here,
Brother Babe,-Good-night!'
Then together Babe and Year
Slept; but ere the dawn,
Vanishing, I know not where,
Brother Year was gone!
poem by John Bannister Tabb
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Fafaia
Stars that seem so close and bright,
Watched by lovers through the night,
Swim in emptiness, men say,
Many a mile and year away.
And yonder star that burns so white,
May have died to dust and night
Ten, or maybe, fifteen year,
Before it shines upon my dear.
Oh! often among men below,
Heart cries out to heart, I know,
And one is dust a many years,
Child, before the other hears.
Heart from heart is all as far,
Fafaia, as star from star.
poem by Rupert Brooke (1913)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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October, 1863
Month of storm, beat shocks and sheaves,
Withered flowers, and falling leaves,
Sullen clouds that darkly loom
Like the shadows of the tomb;
Looks the sun through murky haze
With a weird and watery gaze,
Lighting up the fields and streams,
Vanishing like lightning gleams.
Brooks that sung through mead and dingle
With a silvery tinkle tingle,
Foaming, turbid, rush along
With a rudely brawling song.
Robin of the noiseless wing
And ruddy vest, begins to sing
His wintry lay, and, flitting by,
Scans me with his bold, bright eye.
Sore, October, thou hast grieved me,
Ah! thine advent hath deceived me,
For thou cam'st with thunder crashing,
Deadly lightnings round thee flashing,
Furious gales, and drenching rains,
Sweeping o'er the ravished plains.
I would welcome thee, October,
Gracious, mild, serene, and sober;
With thy fields of russet hue,
With thy skies of hazy blue,
With thy sun, whose chastened glory
Tells brown Autumn's latest story.
Month of all the circling year,
To my soul's best feelings dear,
Sweet the balm thou oft hast poured
When my heart had quailed and cowered,
And shrunk into its inner cell
To bleed unseen. I may not tell
The bitter woes, the chilling fears,
The grief that lies 'too deep for tears,'
The venomed sting, whose burning smart
Thrills o'er the life-strings of my heart.
O then how sweet the soft solace,
To gaze upon thy saintly face,
So dreamy, tender, meek, and calm;
My spirit drank the soothing balm,
The sense of stillness and repose
That round thee like a halo flows.
Dear to you above all others,
You, my toiling, care-worn brothers,
Is the needed, blessed boon
Of your weekly afternoon,
When, with grateful heart and eyes,
'Neath our 'Indian summer' skies,
Our own October, forth ye go
Picking berry, nùt, and sloe.
While the woodlands dim and sere,
Their treasure shed to form the bier-
The death-bed of the waning year-
Think of your own so very near:
So learn, so live, that each October
Finds you more wise, more chaste, more sober.
poem by Janet Hamilton
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All Souls
I
A THIN moon faints in the sky o'erhead,
And dumb in the churchyard lie the dead.
Walk we not, Sweet, by garden ways,
Where the late rose hangs and the phlox delays,
But forth of the gate and down the road,
Past the church and the yews, to their dim abode.
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.
II
Fear not that sound like wind in the trees:
It is only their call that comes on the breeze;
Fear not the shudder that seems to pass:
It is only the tread of their feet on the grass;
Fear not the drip of the bough as you stoop:
It is only the touch of their hands that grope -
For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
When the dead can yearn and the dead can smite.
III
And where should a man bring his sweet to woo
But here, where such hundreds were lovers too?
Where lie the dead lips that thirst to kiss,
The empty hands that their fellows miss,
Where the maid and her lover, from sere to green,
Sleep bed by bed, with the worm between?
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.
IV
And now that they rise and walk in the cold,
Let us warm their blood and give youth to the old.
Let them see us and hear us, and say: 'Ah, thus
In the prime of the year it went with us!'
Till their lips drawn close, and so long unkist,
Forget they are mist that mingles with mist!
For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
When the dead can burn and the dead can smite.
V
Till they say, as they hear us - poor dead, poor dead! -
'Just an hour of this, and our age-long bed -
Just a thrill of the old remembered pains
To kindle a flame in our frozen veins,
Just a touch, and a sight, and a floating apart,
As the chill of dawn strikes each phantom heart -
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear, and the dead have sight.'
VI
And where should the living feel alive
But here in this wan white humming hive,
As the moon wastes down, and the dawn turns cold,
And one by one they creep back to the fold?
And where should a man hold his mate and say:
'One more, one more, ere we go their way'?
For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
When the living can learn by the churchyard light.
VII
And how should we break faith who have seen
Those dead lips plight with the mist between,
And how forget, who have seen how soon
They lie thus chambered and cold to the moon?
How scorn, how hate, how strive, we too,
Who must do so soon as those others do?
For it's All Souls' night, and break of the day,
And behold, with the light the dead are away. . . .
poem by Edith Wharton
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An Autumn Sonnet
These little presents of your tenderness,
Although less grand a gift than was your love,
Are dear to me in this October stress
Of wind and war and whirling leaves above.
They comfort my soul's Autumn, and they prove
How little time can do, to ban or bless,
How much ourselves. You willed the years should move
Back in their cycle. And behold, love, this!
--Now, therefore, let us mark this fortunate day,
And use it for our feast day. Every year
Let us, when winds are high and the leaves fall,
Hold in this house our love's memorial,
Sitting thus hand in hand. Still let me lay
As in the happy days, ere leaves were sere,
My head upon your lap and call you ``dear.''
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Firefly's Fascination
On the flight of the moon to aflame the night,
A firefly's looking up to the light he much adored,
Seem a light of a firefly that he's longing for.
Her brilliant dancing fire,
The endless flashes of light,
Her dazzling face he desire
It was so bright,
so bright.
All he did by night was to look above
He never let his light fade just awhile,
He hopes to be noticed by her love,
Just see his light, then shine and smile.
The luminous rays of the skies,
The beautiful stars at night,
Her shining diamond eyes
It was so bright,
so bright.
Nights and more nights had passed,
All he did by night was to look above
The firefly's light was fading too fast
When he see the truth about his love
The dazzling light did shine no more
The brilliant fire slowly died by night
The luminous sky sings its last roar
The dying light,
fading light.
On the shine of the sun to aflame the day,
A firefly's looking down to shed his tears
when he learned that the one he love
Was nothing but far away star.
poem by Raymond Cabrera
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Love & Luck
By: jimmy buffett, j. beroard, j.c. naimro
1988
Better days are in the cards I feel
Feel it in the changin wind
I feel it when I glide
So talk to me Ill listen to your story
Ive been around enough to know
That theres more than meets the eye
Everybody needs a little good luck charm
A little gris gris keeps you safe from harm
Rub yours on me, and Ill rub mine on you
Luckiest couple on the avenue
Chorus:
With a little love and luck
You will get by
With a little love and luck
Well take the sky
In this mangled modern world
Youve got to try
Try a little love and luck
And youll get by
Mysteries dont ever try to solve them
Were just players in a game
And no ones keeping score
So have your fun
Go ahead and tell your story
Find yourself a lover
Who will glue you to the floor
Everybody needs a little good luck charm
A little gris-gris keeps you safe from harm
Rub yours on me, and Ill rub mine on you
Luckiest couple on the avenue
Chorus:
With a little love and luck
You will get by
With a little love and luck
Well take the sky
In this mangled modern world
Weve got to try
Try a little love and luck
And youll get by
Kole sere, kole sere
Kole sere, kole sere
Kole sere, kole sere
Kole sere, kole sere
Chorus:
With a little love and luck
You will get by
With a little love and luck
Well take the sky
In this mangled modern world
Youve got to try
Try a little love and luck
And youll get by
Kole sere, kole sere
Kole sere, kole sere
Kole sere, kole sere
Kole sere, kole sere
With a little love and luck
You will get by
With a little love and luck
Well take the sky
Love and luck, oh yes
We will get by
Ha ha ha ha...
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Night Of The Lion
'_And that a reply be received before midnight._'
_British Ultimatum_.
Their Day was at twelve of the night,
When the graves give up their dead.
And still, from the City, no light
Yellows the clouds overhead.
Where the Admiral stands there's a star,
But his column is lost in the gloom;
For the brazen doors are ajar,
And the Lion awakes, and the doom.
_He is not of a chosen race.
His strength is the strength of the skies,
In whose glory all nations have place,
In whose downfall Liberty dies.
He is mighty, but he is just.
He shall live to the end of years.
He shall bring the proud to the dust.
He shall raise the weak to the spheres._
It is night on the world's great mart,
But the brooding hush is awake
With the march of a steady heart
That calls like the drum of Drake,
_Come!_ And a muttering deep
As the pulse of the distant guns,
Or the thunder before the leap
Thro' the rolling thoroughfare runs.
And the wounded men go by
Like thoughts in the Lion's brain.
And the clouds lift on high
Like the slow waves of his mane
And the narrowing lids conceal
The furnaces of his eyes.
Their gold is gone out. They reveal
Only two search-lights of steel
Steadily sweeping the skies.
And we hoped he had peace in his lair
Where the bones of old tyrannies lay,
And the skulls that his cubs have stripped bare,
The old skulls they still toss in their play.
But the tyrants are risen again,
And the last light dies from their path;
For the midnight of his mane
Lifts to the stars with his wrath.
From the East to the West he is crouching.
He snuffs at the North-East wind.
His breast upon Britain is couching.
His haunches quiver on Ind.
It is night, black night, where he lies;
But a kingdom and a fleet
Shall burn in his terrible eyes
When he leaps, and the darkness dies
With the War-gods under his feet.
_Till the day when a little child,
Shall lay but a hand on his mane,
And his eyes grow golden and mild
And he stands in the heavens again;
Till the day of the seventh seal,
Which the Lion alone shall rend,
When the stars from their courses reel,
His Freedom shall not end._
poem by Alfred Noyes
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Her Eyes
Up from the street and the crowds that went,
Morning and midnight, to and fro,
Still was the room where his days he spent,
And the stars were bleak, and the nights were slow.
Year after year, with his dream shut fast,
He suffered and strove till his eyes were dim,
For the love that his brushes had earned at last, --
And the whole world rang with the praise of him.
But he cloaked his triumph, and searched, instead,
Till his cheeks were sere and his hairs were gray.
"There are women enough, God knows," he said. . . .
"There are stars enough -- when the sun's away."
Then he went back to the same still room
That had held his dream in the long ago,
When he buried his days in a nameless tomb,
And the stars were bleak, and the nights were slow.
And a passionate humor seized him there --
Seized him and held him until there grew
Like life on his canvas, glowing and fair,
A perilous face -- and an angel's, too.
Angel and maiden, and all in one, --
All but the eyes. -- They were there, but yet
They seemed somehow like a soul half done.
What was the matter? Did God forget? . . .
But he wrought them at last with a skill so sure
That her eyes were the eyes of a deathless woman, --
With a gleam of heaven to make them pure,
And a glimmer of hell to make them human.
God never forgets. -- And he worships her
There in that same still room of his,
For his wife, and his constant arbiter
Of the world that was and the world that is.
And he wonders yet what her love could be
To punish him after that strife so grim;
But the longer he lives with her eyes to see,
The plainer it all comes back to him.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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O Holy Night
Oh holy night!
The stars are brightly shining
It is the night of the dear saviors birth!
Long lay the world in sin and error pining
Till he appeard and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary soul rejoices
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!
Fall on your knees
Oh hear the angel voices
Oh night divine
Oh holy night when christ was born
Oh night divine
Oh night divine
Led by the light of faith serenely beaming
With glowing hearts by his cradle we stand
So led by light of a star sweetly gleaming
Here came the wise men from far distant land
The king of kings lay thus in lowly manger
In all our trials born to be our friend.
song performed by by Reba Mcentire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Song of Autumn
‘WHERE shall we go for our garlands glad
At the falling of the year,
When the burnt-up banks are yellow and sad,
When the boughs are yellow and sere?
Where are the old ones that once we had,
And when are the new ones near?
What shall we do for our garlands glad
At the falling of the year?’
‘Child! can I tell where the garlands go?
Can I say where the lost leaves veer
On the brown-burnt banks, when the wild winds blow,
When they drift through the dead-wood drear?
Girl! when the garlands of next year glow,
You may gather again, my dear—
But I go where the last year’s lost leaves go
At the falling of the year.’
poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
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The Skylark
'It is the skylark come.' For shame!
Robert-a-Cockney is thy name:
Robert-a-Field would surely know
That skylarks, bless them, never go!
* * *
Love of my life, bear witness here
How we have heard them all the year;
How to the skylark's song are set
The days we never can forget.
At Rustington, do you remember?
We heard the skylarks in December;
In January above the snow
They sang to us by Hurstmonceux
Once in the keenest airs of March
We heard them near the Marble Arch;
Their April song thrilled Tonbridge air;
May found them singing everywhere;
And oh, in Sheppey, how their tune
Rhymed with the bean-flower scent in June.
One unforgotten day at Rye
They sang a love-song in July;
In August, hard by Lewes town,
They sang of joy 'twixt sky and down;
And in September's golden spell
We heard them singing on Scaw Fell.
October's leaves were brown and sere,
But skylarks sang by Teston Weir;
And in November, at Mount's Bay,
They sang upon our wedding day!
* * *
Mr.-a-Field, go forth, go forth,
Go east and west and south and north;
You'll always find the furze in flower,
Find every hour the lovers' hour,
And, by my faith in love and rhyme,
The skylark singing all the time!
poem by Edith Nesbit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Night
Hark how the tremulous night-wind is passing in joy-laden sighs;
Soft through my window it comes, like the fanning of pinions angelic,
Whispering to cease from myself, and look out on the infinite skies.
Out on the orb-studded night, and the crescent effulgence of Dian;
Out on the far-gleaming star-dust that marks where the angels have trod;
Out on the gem-pointed Cross, and the glittering pomp of Orion,
Flaming in measureless azure, the coronal jewels of God;
Luminous streams of delight in the silent immensity flowing,
Journeying surgelessly on through impalpable ethers of peace.
How can I think of myself when infinitude o'er me is glowing,
Glowing with tokens of love from the land where my sorrows shall cease?
Oh, summer-night of the South! Oh, sweet languor of zephyrs love-sighing!
Oh, mighty circuit of shadowy solitude, holy and still!
Music scarce audible, echo-less harmony joyously dying,
Dying in faint suspirations o'er meadow, and forest, and hill!
I must go forth and be part of it, part of the night and its gladness.
But a few steps, and I pause on the marge of the shining lagoon.
Here then, at length, I have rest; and I lay down my burden of sadness,
Kneeling alone 'neath the stars and the silvery arc of the moon.
poem by James Brunton Stephens
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The Children Of The Foam
OUT forever and forever,
Where our tresses glint and shiver
On the icy moonlit air;
Come we from a land of gloaming,
Children lost, forever homing,
Never, never reaching there;
Ride we, ride we, ever faster,
Driven by our demon master,
The wild wind in his despair.
Ride we, ride we, ever home,
Wan, white children of the foam.
In the wild October dawning,
When the heaven's angry awning
Leans to lakeward, bleak and drear;
And along the black, wet ledges,
Under icy, caverned edges,
Breaks the lake in maddened fear;
And the woods in shore are moaning;
Then you hear our weird intoning,
Mad, late children of the year;
Ride we, ride we, ever home,
Lost, white children of the foam.
All grey day, the black sky under,
Where the beaches moan and thunder,
Where the breakers spume and comb,
You may hear our riding, riding,
You may hear our voices chiding,
Under glimmer, under gloam;
Like a far-off infant wailing,
You may hear our hailing, hailing,
For the voices of our home;
Ride we, ride we, ever home,
Haunted children of the foam.
And at midnight, when the glimmer
Of the moon grows dank and dimmer,
Then we lift our gleaming eyes;
Then you see our white arms tossing,
Our wan breasts the moon embossing,
Under gloom of lake and skies;
You may hear our mournful chanting,
And our voices haunting, haunting,
Through the night's mad melodies;
Riding, riding, ever home,
Wild, white children of the foam.
There, forever and forever,
Will no demon-hate dissever
Peace and sleep and rest and dream:
There is neither fear nor fret there
When the tired children get there,
Only dews and pallid beam
Fall in gentle peace and sadness
Over long surcease of madness,
From hushed skies that gleam and gleam,
In the longed-for, sought-for home
Of the children of the foam.
There the streets are hushed and restful,
And of dreams is every breast full,
With the sleep that tired eyes wear;
There the city hath long quiet
From the madness and the riot,
From the failing hearts of care;
Balm of peacefulness ingliding,
Dream we through our riding, riding,
As we homeward, homeward fare;
Riding, riding, ever home,
Wild, white children of the foam.
Under pallid moonlight beaming,
Under stars of midnight gleaming,
And the ebon arch of night;
Round the rosy edge of morning,
You may hear our distant horning,
You may mark our phantom flight;
Riding, riding, ever faster,
Driven by our demon master,
Under darkness, under light;
Ride we, ride we, ever home,
Wild, white children of the foam.
poem by William Wilfred Campbell
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Autumn III
The Autumn is old,
The sere leaves are flying;—
He hath gather'd up gold,
And now he is dying;—
Old Age, begin sighing!
The vintage is ripe,
The harvest is heaping;—
But some that have sow'd
Have no riches for reaping;—
Poor wretch, fall a-weeping!
The year's in the wane,
There is nothing adorning,
The night has no eve,
And the day has no morning;—
Cold winter gives warning.
The rivers run chill,
The red sun is sinking,
And I am grown old,
And life is fast shrinking;
Here's enow for sad thinking!
poem by Thomas Hood
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O Holy Night
Oh holy night!
The stars are brightly shining
It is the night of the dear Savior's birth!
Long lay the world in sin and error pining
Till he appear'd and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!
Fall on your knees
Oh hear the angel voices
Oh night divine
Oh night when Christ was born
Oh night divine
Oh night divine
Led by the light of Faith serenely beaming
With glowing hearts by His cradle we stand
So led by light of a star sweetly gleaming
Here come the wise men from Orient land
The King of Kings lay thus in lowly manger
In all our trials born to be our friend.
Truly He taught us to love one another
His law is love and His gospel is peace
Chains shall He break for the slave is our brother
And in His name all oppression shall cease
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we
song performed by by Lee Greenwood from God Bless The U.S.A.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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