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They sowed the wind and now they are going to reap the whirlwind.

quote by Arthur Harris
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Whirlwind

Orbison/dees
Youre the figure of a woman
Youre the mind of a child
A pretty whirlwind
You dont know just what youre doing
When you love me with your smile
A lovely whirlwind
A whirlwind of warm desire
Whirlwind, burning fire woman, realize
That the devil in disguise, is a whirlwind
Born to be running wild and free
Whirlwind
Born to make fools of guys like me
You pick me up like a whirlwind
You put me down like a whirlwind
Each time you touch me Im trouble-bound
Whirl,whirl,whirlwind, whirl,whirl,whirlwind
Whirl,whirl,whirlwind, whirl,whirl,whirlwind
Whirlwind

song performed by Roy Orbison
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Book VI - Part 02 - Great Meteorological Phenomena, Etc

And so in first place, then
With thunder are shaken the blue deeps of heaven,
Because the ethereal clouds, scudding aloft,
Together clash, what time 'gainst one another
The winds are battling. For never a sound there come
From out the serene regions of the sky;
But wheresoever in a host more dense
The clouds foregather, thence more often comes
A crash with mighty rumbling. And, again,
Clouds cannot be of so condensed a frame
As stones and timbers, nor again so fine
As mists and flying smoke; for then perforce
They'd either fall, borne down by their brute weight,
Like stones, or, like the smoke, they'd powerless be
To keep their mass, or to retain within
Frore snows and storms of hail. And they give forth
O'er skiey levels of the spreading world
A sound on high, as linen-awning, stretched
O'er mighty theatres, gives forth at times
A cracking roar, when much 'tis beaten about
Betwixt the poles and cross-beams. Sometimes, too,
Asunder rent by wanton gusts, it raves
And imitates the tearing sound of sheets
Of paper- even this kind of noise thou mayst
In thunder hear- or sound as when winds whirl
With lashings and do buffet about in air
A hanging cloth and flying paper-sheets.
For sometimes, too, it chances that the clouds
Cannot together crash head-on, but rather
Move side-wise and with motions contrary
Graze each the other's body without speed,
From whence that dry sound grateth on our ears,
So long drawn-out, until the clouds have passed
From out their close positions.
And, again,
In following wise all things seem oft to quake
At shock of heavy thunder, and mightiest walls
Of the wide reaches of the upper world
There on the instant to have sprung apart,
Riven asunder, what time a gathered blast
Of the fierce hurricane hath all at once
Twisted its way into a mass of clouds,
And, there enclosed, ever more and more
Compelleth by its spinning whirl the cloud
To grow all hollow with a thickened crust
Surrounding; for thereafter, when the force
And the keen onset of the wind have weakened
That crust, lo, then the cloud, to-split in twain,
Gives forth a hideous crash with bang and boom.
No marvel this; since oft a bladder small,

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poem by Lucretius
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We The Cats

And the time is right
And tonight's the night
Alreed-alright
Come on, old man, come on
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Here's the beat to hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Well, you gotta come on like gi's
You dig the repeat with me and sigh
Put it right on the lee high
Then you can really get by, oh my
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Now you're hep i'll betcha
So reap this righteous riff
Well, we the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Here's the beat to hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Well, you gotta come on like gi's
You dig the repeat with me and sigh
Put it right on the lee high
Then you can really get by, oh my
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Now you're hep i'll betcha
So reap this righteous riff
Well, we the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Here's the beat to hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Well, you gotta come on like gi's
You dig the repeat with me and sigh
Put it right on the lee high
Then you can really get by, oh my
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Now you're hep i'll betcha
Skibble-de-dooba
Skibble-de-boy-boy
Skibble-de-reeba
This righteous, this righteous riff

song performed by Joe Jackson
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We The Cats (Shall Hep Ya)

(words and music by Cab Calloway and Jack Palmer)
And the time is right
And tonight's the night
Alreed-alright
Come on, old man, come on
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Here's the beat to hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Well, you gotta come on like GI's
You dig the repeat with me and sigh
Put it right on the lee high
Then you can really get by, oh my
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Now you're hep I'll betcha
So reap this righteous riff
Well, we the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Here's the beat to hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Well, you gotta come on like GI's
You dig the repeat with me and sigh
Put it right on the lee high
Then you can really get by, oh my
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Now you're hep I'll betcha
So reap this righteous riff
(instrumnetal break)
Well, we the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Here's the beat to hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Well, you gotta come on like GI's
You dig the repeat with me and sigh
Put it right on the lee high
Then you can really get by, oh my
We the cats shall hep ya
So reap this righteous riff
Now you're hep I'll betcha
Skibble-de-dooba
Skibble-de-boy-boy
Skibble-de-reeba
This righteous, this righteous riff

song performed by Joe Jackson
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Messidor

Put in the sickles and reap;
For the morning of harvest is red,
And the long large ranks of the corn
Coloured and clothed as the morn
Stand thick in the fields and deep
For them that faint to be fed.
Let all that hunger and weep
Come hither, and who would have bread
Put in the sickles and reap.

Coloured and clothed as the morn,
The grain grows ruddier than gold,
And the good strong sun is alight
In the mists of the day-dawn white,
And the crescent, a faint sharp horn,
In the fear of his face turns cold
As the snakes of the night-time that creep
From the flag of our faith unrolled.
Put in the sickles and reap.

In the mists of the day-dawn white
That roll round the morning star,
The large flame lightens and grows
Till the red-gold harvest-rows,
Full-grown, are full of the light
As the spirits of strong men are,
Crying, Who shall slumber or sleep?
Who put back morning or mar?
Put in the sickles and reap.

Till the red-gold harvest-rows
For miles through shudder and shine
In the wind's breath, fed with the sun,
A thousand spear-heads as one
Bowed as for battle to close
Line in rank against line
With place and station to keep
Till all men's hands at a sign
Put in the sickles and reap.

A thousand spear-heads as one
Wave as with swing of the sea
When the mid tide sways at its height;
For the hour is for harvest or fight
In face of the just calm sun,
As the signal in season may be
And the lot in the helm may leap
When chance shall shake it; but ye,
Put in the sickles and reap.

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poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The House Of Dust: Complete

I.

The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.

And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,
The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,
And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
The purple lights leap down the hill before him.
The gorgeous night has begun again.

'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams,
I will hold my light above them and seek their faces.
I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .'
The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness,
Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest,
Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains.

We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music,
Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard;
We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight,
We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair,
With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word;
We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer
Moves among us like light, like evening air . . .

Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways,
The rain runs over the pavement before our feet,
The cold rain falls, the rain sings.
We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces
To what the eternal evening brings.

Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,
We have built a tower of stone high into the sky,
We have built a city of towers.

Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness.
Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . .
What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . .
Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .
And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;
Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;
And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.

II.

[...] Read more

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Ride On The Wind... Forever...

I Want To Ride On The Wind… Forever
I Want To Ride Over Land and Sea
I Want To Ride on The Wind… Forever
… and I Want You Riding With Me…

I Want To Ride On The Wind Over Mountains
And Touch The Sky, So Blue
Then Raise Oceans, Like Sparkling Fountains
And Splash Through Water, Kissing You

I Want To Ride On The Wind… Hold Its Mane
Ride The Wind… Wild and Free
For The Wind – Will Never Be Tame…
So Hold On Tight and Just… Breathe…

… Ride The Wind – Let It Begin – Ride The Wind
Ride The Wind – Breathe It In – Ride The Wind
Ride The Wind – Blow Again – Ride The Wind
Ride The Wind – Raise The Wind – Ride The Wind!

I Want To Ride On The Wind – In The Moonlight
I Want To Ride On The Wind – In The Clouds
And Wave To The Wings of Eagles in Flight
… then Float like Snow – Dancing Down

I Want To Ride On The Wind Forever
I Want To Ride and Rush-Up Rainbow-Stairs
I Want To Ride On The Wind – Forever
For Your Sweet-Breath Beckons Me… Everywhere

… Ride The Wind – Let It Begin – Ride The Wind
Ride The Wind – Breathe It In – Ride The Wind
Ride The Wind – Blow Again – Ride The Wind
Ride The Wind – Raise The Wind – Ride The Wind!

poem by MoonBee Canady
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Unrequited Love

In between another heartache faked.
It can be seen and felt although not faced.
But too proud to admit of unrequited love.
Nothing reciprocated from it can be claim...
But pain!

In between lips unkissed and missed.
With a proclamation of strength...
As tears drip from eyes like a typhoon,
Has hit an unexpected wall of sobs.
Someone has been robbed of a trusting job held.

Remembering the region of the Philippines.
Or the China sea.
And the cyclone winds dramatized...
To validate images created,
To compare with the whirlwind within.

In between another heartache faked.
It can be seen and felt.
But too proud to admit of unrequited love.
Nothing reciprocated from it can be claim...
But pain!

And a typhoon of a whirlwind within,
Begins.
As my imagination drifts,
To the Orient again.

And a typhoon of a whirlwind within,
Begins.
As my imagination drifts,
To the Orient again.
Again.
And a typhoon of a whirlwind within,
Begins.
As my imagination drifts,
To the Orient again.

But...
Too proud am I to admit of,
Unrequited love.

And a typhoon of a whirlwind within,
Begins.
As my imagination drifts,
To the Orient again.
Again.
And a typhoon of a whirlwind within,
Begins.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Wild As The Wind (feat. Trisha Yearwood)

Johnny grew up
On the dark side of the law
Livin' in the shadow
Of the light he never saw
Rosie came 'round
In the way that true love does
Just when you're lookin' elsewhere
For the thing that never was
Wild as the wind
Wild as the wind is
Wild as the wind is love
Wild as the wind
Wild as the wind is
Wild as the wind is love
So they team up
And they traveled on thier way
Lookin' for forever
For every yesterday
She brings him hope
In the way that Angels do
Takin' him to heaven
In ways he never knew
Wild as the wind
Wild as the wind is
Wild as the wind is love
Wild as the wind
Wild as the wind is
Wild as the wind is love
Wild as the wind
Every so often
He gets a stray look in his eye
She knows how to hold him
Without ever askin' why
Wild as the wind
Wild as the wind is
Wild as the wind is love
Wild as the wind
Wild as the wind is
Wild as the wind is love
Wild as the wind
Wild as the wind is
Wild as the wind is love
Wild as the wind
Wild as the wind is
Wild as the wind is love

song performed by Garth Brooks
Added by Lucian Velea
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Wild As The Wind

Johnny grew up
On the dark side of the law
Livin in the shadow
Of the light he never saw
Rosie came round
In the way that true love does
Just when youre lookin elsewhere
For the thing that never was
Wild as the wind
Wild as the wind is
Wild as the wind is love
Wild as the wind
Wild as the wind is
Wild as the wind is love
So they team up
And they traveled on thier way
Lookin for forever
For every yesterday
She brings him hope
In the way that angels do
Takin him to heaven
In ways he never knew
Wild as the wind
Wild as the wind is
Wild as the wind is love
Wild as the wind
Wild as the wind is
Wild as the wind is love
Wild as the wind
Every so often
He gets a stray look in his eye
She knows how to hold him
Without ever askin why
Wild as the wind
Wild as the wind is
Wild as the wind is love
Wild as the wind
Wild as the wind is
Wild as the wind is love
Wild as the wind
Wild as the wind is
Wild as the wind is love
Wild as the wind
Wild as the wind is
Wild as the wind is love

song performed by Garth Brooks
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sun-Up

(Shadows over a cradle…
fire-light craning….
A hand
throws something in the fire
and a smaller hand
runs into the flame and out again,
singed and empty….
Shadows
settling over a cradle…
two hands
and a fire.)

I

CELIA

Cherry, cherry, glowing on the hearth, bright red cherry…. When you try to pick up cherry Celia's shriek sticks in you like a pin.

When God throws hailstones you cuddle in Celia's shawl and press your feet on her belly high up like a stool. When Celia makes umbrella of her hand. Rain falls through big pink spokes of her fingers. When wind blows Celia's gown up off her legs she runs under pillars of the bank— great round pillars of the bank have on white stockings too.

Celia says my father
will bring me a golden bowl.
When I think of my father
I cannot see him
for the big yellow bowl
like the moon with two handles
he carries in front of him.

Grandpa, grandpa…
(Light all about you…
ginger… pouring out of green jars…)
You don't believe he has gone away and left his great coat…
so you pretend… you see his face up in the ceiling.
When you clap your hands and cry, grandpa, grandpa, grandpa,
Celia crosses herself.

It isn't a dream…. It comes again and again…. You hear ivy crying on steeples the flames haven't caught yet and images screaming when they see red light on the lilies on the stained glass window of St. Joseph. The girl with the black eyes holds you tight, and you run… and run past the wild, wild towers… and trees in the gardens tugging at their feet and little frightened dolls shut up in the shops crying… and crying… because no one stops… you spin like a penny thrown out in the street. Then the man clutches her by the hair…. He always clutches her by the hair…. His eyes stick out like spears. You see her pulled-back face and her black, black eyes lit up by the glare…. Then everything goes out. Please God, don't let me dream any more of the girl with the black, black eyes.

Celia's shadow rocks and rocks… and mama's eyes stare out of the pillow as though she had gone away and the night had come in her place as it comes in empty rooms… you can't bear it— the night threshing about and lashing its tail on its sides as bold as a wolf that isn't afraid— and you scream at her face, that is white as a stone on a grave and pull it around to the light, till the night draws backward… the night that walks alone and goes away without end. Mama says, I am cold, Betty, and shivers. Celia tucks the quilt about her feet, but I run for my little red cloak because red is hot like fire.

I wish Celia
could see the sea climb up on the sky
and slide off again…

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poem by Lola Ridge
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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto IV.

I.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying Glory smiles
O'er the far times, when many a subject land
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, thron'd on her hundred isles!

II.
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers:
And such she was; her daughters had their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she rob'd, and of her feast
Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increas'd.

III.
In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone -- but Beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade -- but Nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!

IV.
But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway;
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away --
The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er,
For us repeopl'd were the solitary shore.

V.
The beings of the mind are not of clay;
Essentially immortal, they create
And multiply in us a brighter ray
And more belov'd existence: that which Fate
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state

[...] Read more

poem by Byron
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Wind Chimes

Hangin' down from my window
Those are my wind chimes
Wind chimes
Wind chimes
In the late afternoon you're
Hung up on wind chimes
Wind chimes
Wind chimes
Though it's hard i try
Not to look at my wind chimes
Wind chimes
Wind chimes
Now and then a tear rolls on my cheek
On a warm breeze the little bells
Tinklin' wind chimes
Wind chimes
Wind chimes
Close your eyes and lean back
Listen to wind chimes
Wind chimes
Wind chimes
It's so peaceful
Close to a lullabye
The wind chimes tinglin'
Tinglin'
Tinglin'
Tinglin'
The wind chimes tinglin'
Tinglin'
Tinglin'
Tinglin'
Da do do da do do da do do da do do
Whisperin' winds send my wind chimes a tinklin'
Whisperin' winds send my wind chimes a tinklin'
Whisperin' winds send my wind chimes a tinklin'
Whisperin' winds send my wind chimes a tinklin'

song performed by Beach Boys
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Carric-Thura

Fingal, returning from an expedition which he had made into the Roman province, resolved to visit Cathulla, king of Inistore, and brother to Comala, whose story is related at large in the preceding dramatic poem. Upon his coming in sight of Carric-thura, the palace of Cathulla, he observed a flame on its top, which, in those days, was a signal of distress. The wind drove him into a bay at some distance from Carric-thura, and he was obliged to pass the night on shore. Next day he attacked the army of Frothal, king of Sora, who had besieged Cathulla in his palace of Carric-thura, and took Frothal himself prisoner, after he had engaged him in a single combat. The deliverance of Carric-thura is the subject of the poem; but several other episodes are interwoven with it. It appears, from tradition, that this poem was addressed to a Culdee, or one of the first Christian missionaries, and that the story of the spirit of Loda, supposed to be the ancient Odin of Scandinavia, was introduced by Ossian in opposition to the Culdee's doctrine. Be this as it will, it lets us into Ossian's notions of a superior Being; and shows us that he was not addicted to the superstition which prevailed all the world over, before the introduction of Christianity.

HAST thou left thy blue course in heaven, golden-haired son of the sky! The west opened its gates; the bed of thy repose is there. The waves come to behold thy beauty. They lift their trembling heads. They see thee lovely in thy sleep; they shrink away with fear. Rest in thy shadowy cave, O sun! let thy return be in joy.

But let a thousand lights arise to the sound of the harps of Selma: let the beam spread in the hall, the king of shells is returned! The strife of Crona is past, like sounds that are no more. Raise the song, O bards! the king is returned with his fame!

Such were the words of Ullin, when Fingal returned from war; when he returned in the fair blushing of youth with all his heavy locks. His blue arms were on the hero; like a light cloud on the sun, when he moves in his robes of mist, and shows but half his beams. His heroes followed the king: the feast of shells is spread. Fingal turns to his bards, and bids the song to rise.

Voices of echoing Cona! he said; O bards of other times! Ye, on whose souls the blue host of our fathers rise! strike the harp in my hall: and let me hear the song. Pleasant is the joy of grief; it is like the shower of spring when it softens the branch of the oak, and the young leaf rears its green head. Sing on, O bards! to-morrow we lift the sail. My blue course is through the ocean, to Carric-thura's walls; the mossy walls of Sarno, where Comala dwelt. There the noble Cathulla spreads the feast of shells. The boars of his woods are many; the sound of the chase shall arise!

Cronnan, son of the song! said Ullin; Minona, graceful at the harp! raise the tale of Shilric, to please the king of Morven. Let Vinvela come in her beauty, like the showery bow when it shows its lovely head on the lake, and the setting sun is bright. She comes, O Fingal! her voice is soft, but sad.

Vinvela. My love is a son of the hill. He pursues the flying deer. His gray dogs are panting around him; his bow-string sounds in the wind. Dost thou rest by the fount of the rock, or by the noise of the mountain stream? The rushes are nodding to the wind, the mist flies over the hill. I will approach my love unseen; I will behold him from the rock. Lovely I saw thee first by the aged oak of Branno; thou wert returning tall from the chase; the fairest among thy friends.

Shilric. What voice is that I hear? that voice like the summer wind! I sit not by the nodding rushes; I hear not the fount of the rock . Afar, Vinvela, afar, I go to the wars of Fingal. My dogs attend me no more. No more I tread the hill. No more from on high I see thee, fair moving by the stream of the plain; bright as the bow of heaven; as the moon on the western wave.

Vinvela. Then thou art gone, O Shilric! I am alone on the hill! The deer are seen on the brow: void of fear they graze along. No more they dread the wind; no more the rustling tree. The hunter is far removed, he is in the field of graves. Strangers! sons of the waves! spare my lovely Shilric!

Shilric. If fall I must in the field, raise high my grave, Vinvela. Gray stones, and heaped up earth, shall mark me to future times. When the hunter shall sit by the mound, and produce his food at noon, "some warrior rests here," he will say; and my fame shall live in his praise. Remember me, Vinvela, when low on earth I lie!

Vinvela. Yes! I will remember thee! alas! my Shilric will fall! What shall I do, my love, when thou art for ever gone? Through these hills I will go at noon: I will go through the silent heath. There I will see the place of thy rest, returning from the chase. Alas! my Shilric will fall; but I will remember Shilric.

And I remember the chief, said the king of woody Morven; he consumed the battle in his rage. But now my eyes behold him not. I met him one day on the hill; his cheek was pale: his brow was dark. The sigh was frequent in his breast: his steps were towards the desert. But now he is not in the crowd of my chiefs, when the sounds of my shields arise. Dwells he in the narrow house, the chief of high Carmora?

Cronnan! said Ullin of other times, raise the song of Shilric! when he returned to his hills, and Vinvela was no more. He leaned on her gray mossy stone he thought Vinvela lived. He saw her fair moving on the plain; but the bright form lasted not: the sunbeam fled from the field, and she was seen no more. Hear the song of Shilric; it is soft, but sad!

I sit by the mossy fountain; on the top of the hill of winds. One tree is rustling above me. Dark waves roll over the heath. The lake is troubled below. The deer descend from the hill. No hunter at a distance is seen. It is mid-day: but all is silent. Sad are my thoughts alone. Didst thou but appear, O my love? a wanderer on the heath? thy hair floating on the wind behind thee; thy bosom heaving on the sight; thine eyes full of tears for thy friends, whom the mists of the hill had concealed? Thee I would comfort, my love, and bring thee to thy father's house?

But is it she that there appears, like a beam of light on the heath? bright as the moon in autumn, as the sun in a summer storm, comest thou, O maid, over rocks, over mountains, to me? She speaks: but how weak her voice! like the breeze in the reeds of the lake.

"Returnest thou safe from the war? Where are thy friends, my love? I heard of thy death on the hill; I heard and mourned thee, Shilric! Yes, my fair, I return: but I alone of my race. Thou shalt see them no more; their graves I raised on the plain. But why art thou on the desert hill? Why on the heath alone?

" Alone I am, O Shilric! alone in the winter-house. With grief for thee I fell. Shilric, I am pale in the tomb."

She fleets, she sails away; as mist before the wind; and wilt thou not stay, Vinvela? Stay, and behold my tears! Fair thou appearest, Vinvela! fair thou wast, when alive!

By the mossy fountain I will sit; on the top of the hills of winds. When mid-day is silent around, O talk with me, Vinvela! come on the light-winged gale! on the breeze of the desert, come! Let me hear thy voice, as thou passest, when mid-day is silent around!

Such was the song of Cronnan, on the night of Selma's joy. But morning rose in the east; the blue waters rolled in light. Fingal bade his sails to rise; the winds came rustling from their hills. Inistore rose to sight, and Carric-thura's mossy towers! But the sign of distress was on their top: the warning flame edged with smoke. The king of Morven struck his breast: he assumed at once his spear. His darkened brow bends forward to the coast: he looks back to the lagging winds. His hair is disordered on his back. The silence of the king is terrible!

Night came down on the sea: Rotha's bay received the ship. A rock bends along the coast with all its echoing wood. On the top is the circle of Loda, the mossy stone of power! A narrow plain spreads beneath covered with grass and aged trees, which the midnight winds, in their wrath, had torn from their shaggy rock. The blue course of a stream is there! the lonely blast of ocean pursues the thistle's beard. The flame of three oaks arose: the feast is spread round; but the soul of the king is sad, for Carric-thura's chief distrest.

The wan cold moon rose in the east. Sleep descended on the youths! Their blue helmets glitter to the beam; the fading fire decays. But sleep did not rest on the king: he rose in the midst of his arms, and slowly ascended the hill, to behold the flame of Sarno's tower.

The flame was dim and distant; the moon hid her red face in the east. A blast came from the mountain, on its wings was the spirit of Loda. He came to his place in his terrors, and shook his dusky spear. His eyes appear like flames in his dark face; his voice is like distant thunder. Fingal advanced his spear in night, and raised his voice on high.

Son of night, retire; call thy winds, and fly! Why dost thou come to my presence, with thy shadowy arms? Do I fear thy gloomy form, spirit of dismal Loda! Weak is thy shield of clouds; feeble is that meteor, thy sword! The blast rolls them together; and thou thyself art lost. Fly from my presence, son of night; call thy winds, and fly!

[...] Read more

poem by James Macpherson
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The Piper On The Hills

A CHILD'S SONG
There sits a piper on the hill
Who pipes the livelong day,
And when he pipes both loud and shrill,
The frightened people say
‘The wind, the wind is blowing up,
'Tis rising to a gale.’
The women hurry to the shore
To watch some distant sail.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing to a gale.
But when he pipes all sweet and low,
The piper on the hill,
I hear the merry women go
With laughter, loud and shrill
‘The wind, the wind is coming south,
'Twill blow a gentle day.’
They gather on the meadow-land,
To toss the yellow hay.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing south to-day.

And in the morn, when winter comes,
To keep the piper warm,
The little Angels shake their wings
To make a feather storm
‘The snow, the snow has come at last!’
The happy children call,
And ‘ring around’ they dance in glee,
And watch the snowflakes fall.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Has spread a snowy pall.
But when at night the piper plays,
I have not any fear,
Because God's windows open wide
The pretty tune to hear;
And when each crowding spirit looks,
From its star window-pane,
A watching mother may behold
Her little child again.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
May blow her home again.

poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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Wind Horse

Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, gentle Wind horse, you were the last of your kind.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you were running wild and free.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, with this freedom you did nothing but give;
When one called for help you carried them to safety,
No enemy did you have.

Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave your life one day
To a boy with no leg.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you gave him your endless love.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you now run in the Great Hunting Grounds;
Giving joy to those there, as you did here.

Da naho… It is said,
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, your life was not the last gift
You gave the People.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, you prayed for us, you wished a wish for us.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we remember you through your brother Horse.

Wi: yo: h … It is good.
Wind Horse, Wind Horse, we see you still.

poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
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Perfect Day

Just a perfect day..
Drink sangria in the park
And later, when it gets dark
We go home
Just a perfect day..
Feed animals in the zoo
And later, a movie too
And then home
Its such a perfect day
Im glad I spent it with you
Such a perfect day
You just keep me hanging on..
You just keep me hanging on..
Just a perfect day..
Problems all left alone
Weekenders on our own
Such fun
Just a perfect day
You made me forget myself
I thought I was someone else
Someone new
(chorus)
-
Youre gonna reap, just what you sow.
Youre gonna reap, just what you sow.
Youre gonna reap, just what you sow.
Youre gonna reap, just what you sow.
Youre gonna reap, just what you sow.
Youre gonna reap, just what you sow.

song performed by Duran Duran
Added by Lucian Velea
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I Sowed, I Sowed

At the heart of things, I sowed, I sowed
And waited for my gifts to grow
But tender roots could not take hold
In a hardened soul…so dark and cold
Yet inside of me, it thrived, it bloomed
It burned away all doubt and gloom
Now every breath that swells in me
It steady grows, just like a tree…

But inside of you, it could not grow
Was stifled by the falling snow
Unable to embrace the flames
Was satisfied, with fun and games
I gave my heart to make it real
And spread the passion that I feel
But songs of hope, were not enough
To rise above the fangs of lust

There's nothing I can do…or say
Time won't sweep the fire away
You'll yearn for me, as I will you
You can't deny, the fire is true
We'll hold our breath in deep of night
Pretending to be joined in flight
We'll ride the waves in our ascent
Come crashing down, trembling…spent

Echoes scream through my mind
Again, again the scenes rewind
Dreams hold fast the secret fire
Fueled by flames of deep desire
Your loins relive the raging burn
But from the night, you cannot turn
While fighting ghosts on tangled sheets
The fire will rob you of your sleep

Forever connected, our fire entwined
Yet separated by boundary lines
Never will, two wrongs be right
Never will, we share the night
Just two lost souls adrift at sea
To never touch…to never be
At the heart of things, I sowed, I sowed
In a place where love could never grow

poem by Leria Hawkins
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Ride The Wild Wind

Ride the wild wind
(push the envelope dont sit on the fence)
Ride the wild wind
(live life on the razors edge)
Gonna ride the whirlwind
It aint dangerous - enough for me
Get your head down baby - were gonna ride tonight
Your angel eyes are shining bright
I wanna take your hand - lead you from this place
Gonna leave it all behind
Check out of this rat race -
Ride the wild wind
Ride the wild wind
Gonna ride the whirlwind -
It aint dangerous - enough for me
Tie your hair back baby -
Were gonna ride tonight
We got freaks to the left - we got jerks to the right
Sometimes I get so low - I just have to ride
Let me take your hand
Let me be your guide
Ride the wild wind
(dont sit on the fence)
Ride the wild wind
(live life on the razors edge)
Gonna ride the whirlwind
It aint dangerous - enough for me
Ride the wild wind

song performed by Queen
Added by Lucian Velea
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Annus Mirabilis, The Year Of Wonders, 1666

1
In thriving arts long time had Holland grown,
Crouching at home and cruel when abroad:
Scarce leaving us the means to claim our own;
Our King they courted, and our merchants awed.

2
Trade, which, like blood, should circularly flow,
Stopp'd in their channels, found its freedom lost:
Thither the wealth of all the world did go,
And seem'd but shipwreck'd on so base a coast.

3
For them alone the heavens had kindly heat;
In eastern quarries ripening precious dew:
For them the Idumaean balm did sweat,
And in hot Ceylon spicy forests grew.

4
The sun but seem'd the labourer of the year;
Each waxing moon supplied her watery store,
To swell those tides, which from the line did bear
Their brimful vessels to the Belgian shore.

5
Thus mighty in her ships, stood Carthage long,
And swept the riches of the world from far;
Yet stoop'd to Rome, less wealthy, but more strong:
And this may prove our second Punic war.

6
What peace can be, where both to one pretend?
(But they more diligent, and we more strong)
Or if a peace, it soon must have an end;
For they would grow too powerful, were it long.

7
Behold two nations, then, engaged so far
That each seven years the fit must shake each land:
Where France will side to weaken us by war,
Who only can his vast designs withstand.

8
See how he feeds the Iberian with delays,
To render us his timely friendship vain:
And while his secret soul on Flanders preys,
He rocks the cradle of the babe of Spain.

9
Such deep designs of empire does he lay

[...] Read more

poem by John Dryden
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