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To and Back From the Ocean

Oceanocracy the concept from my childhood memory
Dream holiday is worth 20 millions us $ saving it for 30 years for a dreamer of adventure from Russia to go up to the ISS (international space center)
I am a spaceman going to touch the sand of the ocean and the snow ball of the New Mexico mountains
From a small village from an unknown area of the world
I am bird of a new birth
Still watching the illusive dreams
To the ocean of the dreams
Coming back from the battle of the dreams
To reality-based wisdom, only true intellectuals touch the base of its interaction
what is your most important thing in life, a question to be explored and satoried like language has to be invented, life has to be discovered across disciplines
Bright future with ocean and village apart
intellectual infusion
intellectual genuineness
intellectual nothingness but moving quiteness
ploughshares on the spur of the moments
lines on the new edge of the modern science
Cutting edge is breezeness of change, the real one

poem by Nyein Way
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My Illusive Dreams

My illusive dreams
hold me captive
refusing to
surrender
they continue a
haunting refrain
as I linger in
their presence.

In my imagination
you are ever
present
encouraging,
carressing,
comforting me.

Like my constant
shadow
ever walking beside
me
hovering over my
image.

poem by Heather Burns
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They say dreams never do come true.

They say dreams never do come true..
But they are wrong, I say they do
I dream of violence, I dream of hurt
I dream of children, they live in dirt
I dream of you, I dream of me
I dream of how this was never meant to be
I dream of my feelings, I dream of my thoughts
I dream of these things, I dream of them lots
I dream of my loved ones, I dream of the dead
I dream of these thoughts, exploding my head
I dream of you yelling, I dream of you crying
I dream of you hiding, I dream of you lying
I dream of you hurting, I dream of you shutting me out of your life
I dream of the of the only one I can trust, I dream of my knife.
They say dreams never do come true,
But they are wrong, I say they do.

poem by Sylvi Hart
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When Dreams Don't Come True

One day I woke up
Everything was messed up
Somehow I wish I could fix it
But that's a dream that will never come true
When dreams don't come true

When you cry
In the night
You wish someone was there
But no one comes
When you're down
On the ground
You wish someone was there
To tell the truth and care for you
When dreams don't come true

Today was the worst day
That ever happened to me
Someone once asked me
How has your day been
Then I said
I think my life will end today

When you cry
In the night
You wish someone was there
But no one comes
When you're down
On the ground
You wish someone was there
To tell the truth and care for you
When dreams don't come true
When dreams don't come true
When dreams don't come true

poem by Mystykka Mysterious
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My Fondest Childhood Memory

Homework, said my teacher,
Is to write a poem,
About your fondest
Childhood memory

Immediately, I began to shake
And within minutes
A cold sweat had
Come over me

I had dreaded,
Absolutely dreaded,
This day,
This moment in time.

I thought perhaps
I might find an excuse
Such as dogs dying
Or broken water pipes

I wondered
If I dropped the course
Would I get
A rebate?

And then
It dawned on me
The perfect line...
I'm afraid
I've had amnesia
All these years.

poem by Dee Daffodil
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To This World Of Dying Humanity

The starter was served awfully before than-
You arrived;
The end is way afar yet.
And you have already relinquished;
All your days of juvenile hopes,
And all your nights of wet dreams.

Strippers, Dancers and Hookers,
Crying,
While awake or asleep;
Money, Money and Money…
Professors, Doctors and Philosophers,
Whispering,
In the ears of their confused minds;
Money, Money and Money…
Priests, Pandits and Sheikhs,
Praying,
In the abodes of their delusional holiness;
Money, Money and Money…
Artists, Poets and Thinkers,
Talking,
To an imagery of their animated desires;
Money, Money and Money…
Revolutionists, Extremists and Politicians,
Shouting,
In the minds of the naive adolescence;
Money, Money and Money…

Hey,
Why are you saying so?
Are you out of your mind?
Are you not one of us?
Hey,
We got you;
You penniless filth,
You say things about Money;
When,
Can’t get it any more…
Before,
You were like us;
Crying, whispering, praying, talking and shouting for
Money, Money and Money…

Listen to me;
My brothers and sisters,
For I would not speak again.
I,
Who is one like you;
Is no different,
From your own flesh and blood.
Which runs through your veins,
And which you don’t even mind to eat;
When ravenous.
Lend me your ears;
My brothers and sisters,
For I would not speak again.
Do not misjudge me,
And do not deny me;
As I am one of you.
This world is a false metaphor;
Created millions of years back,
With the darkness of Light.
An examination venue,
Designed like a ball room;
Where men and women,
Come; make pairs, dance and leave.
But before leaving;
They are acknowledged with a testimony,
Of their orgasmic love;
In the form of the angelic divinity.

Men and Women of our mother earth;
Here creeps an illusive ambiguity-
If we all were angels once;
And if we were nothing,
But a part of eternal divinity-
Then,
Why we have become devils today?
Needs, Desires, Beliefs, Hatreds, and underneath all;
Our Ego…

I am neither a prophet nor a saint,
I am like you, just an ordinary man;
I know nothing,
Except the internal fact;
And that is what you fear to listen-
If you can kill your Ego,
For another man or woman;
If you can sacrifice your inner-self,
For the sake of the other soul;
You can salvage,
The Spirit Forfeited;
And you can retrieve,
The Paradise Lost;
On this planet of living misery,
And in this world of dying humanity.

Nov 24,2008

poem by Dr Kamran Haider Bukhari
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There Have Been Millions And Millions Of Years

THERE HAVE BEEN MILLIONS AND MILLIONS OF YEARS

There have been millions and millions of years
And there will be millions and millions more
And I have had only less than seventy-
There is so much to see and be and know
I could understand far more than I do now
I have so much beauty and hope and love in me
Why do I have to die?
It does not seem fair or wise
So much waste and loss in my dying
Worlds in me that will never be known.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Twice Hail

Twice Hail
To the children
Of the place of the dawn
Hail, to the children
Twice children of the sun
Hail dark brown forms
You are the vertebrae
Its pristine strength
Has an intelligence soul
That knows the millions of years
Of the heavenly row boat.
Children of the sky scrappers
Children of the corn
Hail the great God
Who suffer no destruction
Exalted one, adored
By the coming forth
Of the souls of children
Who can say
The God of my God
In an intelligent way.

poem by David E. Patton
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Through My Daughter's Eyes

Through My Daughter's Eyes

Through my daughter's eyes
She doth despise

Nothing on this mortal earth
Holds more worth

The respect and love of your child
Is worth more than any gold compiled

But today I have lost it all
Through her eyes of one yet small

And like the world and how it spins
I pray that she comes round again

14 Dec 2007

poem by JoJo Bean
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The New Savitr.....

/* On the occasion of 50th marriage anniversary of an old couple, I wrote these thoughts*/

Sun, Moon and the Planets near and far
Galaxies, Constellations and the twinkling stars
Gas Clouds and the vast infinite empty space
Keep moving away day by day, science says

From the moment of its birth in the seed of fire
For millions and millions of years
The Universe grew by not holding together
Telling us with time things diverge from each other

But from the moment of birth before the sacred fire
Bond of yours grew by holding together
Your heart and soul has grown in each other
Your original self now hard to decipher

Fifty years duration or one and half billion seconds
Flame of your love that defied the cosmic trends
Is Savitr, the seed of fire extolled in RgVeda Gayatri
I salute it at your feet and thank the almighty!

-TBT

poem by TheBigThinkg Human
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Tragic in the World.

If you can learn from all the tragic in the world
You can come out as a winner.
But, only if you find the true Spirit, humbleness,
Appreciation for all life, with the great faith in goodness.

Not in fear, tragic or just in a poor survival,
Learn to see the great riches everywhere,
Do not believe in shortage
See how many stars are in the sky,
How many grain of sand all around,
How many grass comes up, even in impossible
places.
Even how much money is wasted by the governments.

If you are in this moment in the middle of it, do not
dwell on fear,
But keep telling yourself: 'I'll go through this & I open my mind
For plenty (or health or happiness) .
When you believe this, somehow life will bring lessons
To achieve your dream
Be patient, follow your feelings.

If one can see the riches of this Earth,
Eventually will be able to attract a great deal
It is not men who gives the income,
But everything comes from the treasury of the Spirit
This is how the rich people attracts theirs
Same time how the poor are loosing even what they have.
By only Faith in good or bad.
Remember:

'The rich gets richer and the poor gets poorer.'

What can be done?
Let go, relax, stop fighting against the wind,
Open your mind for beauty, harmony, plenty,
No matter where you are.
But do not tell Spirit that you Want a mansion or a diamond.

Anyway, life gives you what you need to your next lesson,
And not what You want.

You have a choice.

poem by LaSoaphia QuXazs
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Soccer–Passion Song

Soccer–Passion Song

Soccer in the evening;
Soccer in the morning;
Soccer in spring and fall.

Soccer in the raining;
Soccer in the snowing;
Soccer in winter and summer.

Soccer in between my feet,
where I walk;
Soccer in my heart and mind,
how I live;
Soccer my love and life.

Soccer I wake up and play;
Soccer I hold it to sleep;
Soccer my work and rest.

Soccer I sing a new song;
Soccer I dance the magic steps;
Soccer my tears and joy.

Soccer my Mom buys it for me to play;
Soccer my Dad brings me to the game;
Soccer my dear Love watches me to score.

Soccer I dribble and shoot;
Soccer I pass and fall;
Soccer my glory and downfall.

Soccer I strike to attack;
Soccer I tackle to defend;
Soccer my struggle and survival.

Soccer I receive the flags and the whistles;
Soccer I get the yellow and red card;
Soccer my moves and stop.

Soccer I meet my friends;
Soccer I make my enemies;
Soccer my conflict and peace.

Soccer I play and watch;
Soccer I watch but cannot play;
Soccer my dream and reality.

Soccer I learn the rights;
Soccer I confess the fouls;
Soccer my black and white.

Soccer my endless thought;
Soccer my very last breathe;
Soccer my dating and being.

Soccer, I …
Soccer, You…
Soccer, We…

Soccer! Soccer! Soccer!
Love! Life! and Game!
Forever! Soccer!

*

Life is to pursue your Goal!
Dream a big Goal!
Work hard for your Goal!
Chase passionate for your Goal!
Focus to shoot your Goal!
Play to finish your Goal!
Never ever give up your Goal!
And this is your life Goal!
In the end you will scream, 'Goaaal! '.

(by Laijon Liu 2007.05.25)

*

Passion Song (Style 2)

Soccer my love;
Soccer my passion;
Soccer my living breath and processing thought.

Without her I do not know
What is love and life?
With her my soul gravitates.

Soccer I give her my awakening touch;
Soccer I receive her irresistible call;
Soccer my magical ball.

Without her my tear, beer, and despair;
What's the purpose of life that plays not?
With her my buddies, friends, and kindly world.

Soccer my morning and my dawn;
Soccer my evening and my dusk;
Soccer my seasons of circling being.

Without her my world is in dark;
When is time to watch my sunrise ball?
With her my sunshine, moonlite, and eternal stars.

Soccer my beginning of journey;
Soccer my pasture where I rest;
Soccer my coming and going.

Without her I do not know
How and where I walk in life?
With her everywhither and everywhere I play.

Soccer I come;
Soccer I will go;
Soccer on earth we live!

(2007.05.25)

*

S.O.C.C.E.R.

Soccer starts,
On earth peoples become fans;
Care not wars, care not crimes;
Carry our flags, songs, and drums;
Everyone is dancing, chanting, harmonizing;
Restarted our true engine of human life.

Soccer plays,
On the pitch of our beautiful globe;
Care not politics, care not separatisms;
Carry our joys, passions, and oneness;
Everyone is coming, watching, and sharing;
Rebuilt our perfect sphere in one wholly piece.

Soccer ends,
On the screens of common household;
Care not victory nor defeat, honor or shame;
Carry our beer, tears, hopes; a great memory;
Everywhere we walk, meet, and argue…
Rekindled our souls in her beginning and ending.

Soccer we play and live,
On the street, beach, and green pasture;
Care not hatred of past, injury of nightmares;
Carry our sweat, spirit, and a virtuous living goal;
Every moment of our game in life
Refines our goodly being thru true love of beautiful game.

S. O. C. C. E. R.
O.
C.
C.
E.
R.

(2007 .05.28)

*

A Red Card in the Game!

A sudden stop of our play,
A bloody card and a cursed sign for us
To walk off our living pitch,
Whether winning or losing,
Artistical expression or violent acts,
Joys, tears, confusion, or frustration,
All must cease!

But our game goes on,
Our players play on,
And fans cheer on,
Coz life must go on.

Yeah, we must walk on!

(2007.06.01)

*

Soloist's Song

(Chorus :)
Soccer is the game, hey, hey, hey;
Beauty is her name, hey, hey, hey;
Playing is the way, hey, hey, hey;
Let her shine n ray, hey, hey, hey.

(Soloist: Intro.)
I kindly roll; roll it with my sole
To left and right; my soul, my soul;
I gently spin; spin it with my toe
As it may flow; my ode, my ode;
I softly knock; knock with my heel
In Achilles' mole; my show, my show;
I carefully stroke; stroke it through
Their wicked loophole, my hole, my hole;
I swiftly shoot; shoot it for my home
To my sweet home; my goal, my goal;
I earnestly pray: to play with my all
My ball is my all; my all, my all.

(Chorus :)
You all be coming and start watching,
The superstar is in the making.
You all be standing, and start singing,
The superstar is in the making.

Stick on your dives, quit your faking,
Throw your moves without acting;
Shut your yelling and start kicking,
Too much talking, let's working;
Stop dribbling and start passing,
Time's not waiting, stop longing;
Shun the world that they're joking,
The superstar is in the making.

You all be coming and start watching,
The superstar is in the making.
You all be standing, and start singing,
The superstar is in the making.

(Soloist)
I always take ball for a walk,
Show my love dance Rumba;
I let your dogs do the talk,
Juggle it with my driving Jive;
I am here to earn my stock,
Shaking with it in Samba;
I let you chase me and stalk,
Getting down low in Hip Hop.

Take it to a long walk to show off.
I'm a bit short, but still a big shock.
You can wag your finger and talk.
As long as I've got my ball,
My all, my all, my all

(Chorus :)
You all be coming and start watching,
The superstar is in the making.
You all be standing, and start singing,
The superstar is in the making.

(Soloist)
Hey, Get off my stage,
You bad dogs in rage;
Coz the Hyena outta cage,
My k9 cut you in siege.
I've paid full to wage
A revolt on my page;
To stop your sinful rampage
And welcome a new age.

Take it to a long walk to make people talk.
The board is green, my feet are chalk,
Let my single footnote be taught,
As long as I've got my ball,
My all, my all, my all

(Chorus :)
You all be coming and start watching,
The superstar is in the making.
You all be standing, and start singing,
The superstar is in the making.

(Soloist :)
Can't you see I'm in flame;
I'm here for a good game;
Work hard for my common name;
Not to make it into a frame;
You can keep all the fame;
But I play for a higher aim,
Even I end up walk in lame
Or go down in shame, no blame.

Take it to a long walk to the splashing wave.
Rise above all shouts of your dead cave,
Let your noise be my rhymed stave.
As long as I've got my ball,
My all, my all, my all

(Chorus :)
You all be coming and start watching,
The superstar is in the making.
You all be standing, and start singing,
The superstar is in the making.

(Soloist :)
When my game meets rain,
My dream is into the drain;
When my faith is on the string,
My gut hurts your brain;
The Cup is for me to drink,
Coz God Is always in reign;
And I always live to train,
So all fields are fair terrain.

Take it to a long walk to test my backbone.
Even tonight you throw your stone;
Let it be my wellstone or milestone;
As long as I've got my Cornerstone;
My all, my all, my all

(Chorus :)
You all be coming and start watching,
The superstar is in the making.
You all be standing, and start singing,
The superstar is in the making.

(Soloist :)
I can hold my peace;
I can play with ease.
Gals love me as cheese;
All faults are gonna cease.
Coz I've got a real piece
To make all race in peace,
And you think it's fleece,
But I believe it's Grace.

Take it to a long walk to where my heart goes.
Even time decides to join my foes;
Let my Wind come with His blows;
As long as I've got my ball;
My all, my all, my all

(Chorus :)
You all be coming and start watching,
The superstar is in the making.
You all be standing, and start singing,
The superstar is in the making.

Stick on your dives, quit your faking,
Throw your moves without acting;
Shut your yelling and start kicking,
Too much talking, let's working;
Stop dribbling and start passing,
Time's not waiting, stop longing;
Shun the world that they're joking,
The superstar is in the making.

You all be coming and start watching,
The superstar is in the making.
You all be standing, and start singing,
The superstar is in the making.

(Soloist: Epilogue)
Journey is in curiosity;
We play in creativity;
Winning is a possibility;
Love provides ability;
Faith is in charity;
All is in the Almighty

(Chorus :)
Soccer is the game, hey, hey, hey;
Beauty is her name, hey, hey, hey;
Playing is the way, hey, hey, hey;
Let her shine n ray, hey, hey, hey.

Note:
They say soloists are selfish and proud,
But I think they have guts and courage;
After watching some bad politician news
I felt that all of us were used for amuse,
So I somehow had the image of soloists,
who have balls and ball and skill to solo
against all the things they disagree with.
I don't think this is about soccer, if not
Then 'One Man Against the World! '
He or She can be Hero or Villain, or both.

*

I Dream a Greatest Living Show (Revised 20090402)

- The Start Is Play -

On green earth in the dark universe,
What is the greatest living show?
There people find their true home,
and in sweetest dream they roam.
When sinful wars poke all the holes,
but their game points a better road;
to their sorrow days and lost hope,
they still can sing a rhymed prose.
From the presence to ancient old,
I swear we never lose our true goal;
Even the night rains strike with cold,
But dawn gonna come in color of rose.
Coz I see petal fly and sticker snow,
from my screen to the front rows.
There the stars fall in heavenly glow
to sing an intro for my heroes’ show.
'No more sorrows' they sing, 'behold.
the world gonna become one big hood.'
The camera flash for their perfect pose,
And their peaceful hand heals broken soul.
The whistle of commander for ref to blow,
it’s made for games and not for gun smoke.

My hot babes and my sweet maids
I cannot refrain myself not to gaze.
For their pure face and glamour shape
Shine ten thousand splendors to amaze.
They are the sunshine of my days,
And night rose of my secret space,
Brings me blue sky and good odors,
that the world is not a shitty place.

They stretch their beautiful feet,
Swing their shining sharpen cleats,
so all the cockroaches on my screen
are swept away, off the wicked games.
They work hard on the green pitch,
and always play under fair light,
even dive and foul in an honest name:
The chasing of their dream is true fame.

And peace filled their graceful heart;
Perfect shorts wrapped their sexy butt.
As butterflies they dance here n there,
Like doves they circle a ring of light.
They come in kicking and screaming,
playing with guts n breaking the balls,
composing all the greatest dramas that
even Shakespeare never saw!

Greek heroes of the present day
surely broke Achilles' feeble heel.
Odysseus always had strong arms,
But hey! Look at his weak legs.
Homer sold his Helen’s fair look,
but I do lust for Divas on the stand.
Sun Zi wrote Art of War, for war? !
Oh, No! I believe it is just for game.

And game wheels in movement of life,
as sprinting river clashing waves to the ocean.
People climb high to reach the peak,
but water streams low as art of my poem.
Generations in current from past to future,
Rolling and waving, pushing and pulling,
As songs and dance shift in tones and steps,
All kinds of fashions, old n new, switching trends,
But our passion for it forever runs.

Days and nights I stare at my TV screen,
Hope all channels show any team’s news.
According to result I drink beer or tears;
but if any rats or flies or cockroach wins,
I’d spit and blow a tooting fart: “what a damn scheme! ”
Yeah, I should quit those; coz gals hate them.
But my fields are invaded by the true aliens,
who show me their phony cards and tell me to play or not.

And the damn cockroaches sharing my meal
Before my lifetime potato feast is over;
Freaking flies soaring high in the ceiling
and dropp their filthy eggs all over my bed;
And vicious rats sharpening their teeth,
Chewing my precious peanuts as concerto;
And I look toward my dream field and know:
Before the night is over, my heroes gonna win.

Even though the flies set up the fireworks
To make the skies to illume as a short day;
The cockroaches consume all the markets,
Marching in with an overwhelmed number;
The rats of the world drain my only oil jar,
And they dare to kill anyone without blinking an eye;
But I know their works are dust and smoke,
Once my players step in the field, then all dirt are dispersed.

So all my players are my heroes and stars
And defending my crappy poetry space-
Where Beauty shines and Hope glows
There my dream rows and heart goes
As the ball rolls that my desire flows
There the gods feed me their shows
In the company of the musical odes;
They chase n woo and fighting my foes!

Their gentle touch n clever play,
and buildup ways make me daze.
Their teasing moves never delay,
Tricked the world into fancy gate.
One and Two they call it Wall Play,
Bring out woohs n aahs in any day.
They patiently wait, as time won’t pay,
but I can’t hold n yell “Come on! Ain’t got all day! ”

Yeah, what a game! It’s never a shame.
90 minutes length; never 2 minutes fame.
Guys strive for competition;
Gals always require communication,
but I say, 'Forget about connection,
Just shoot to the goal with passion.
If anyone asks for an explanation,
just tell that we were caught by emotion and lost in sensation.'

Players stand and start in formation,
their thoughts of plans are deep as ocean,
And cleansed by their rousing sweat lotion
to push our earth to a perfect spinning motion.
What an inspiration to the world in depression,
when all of us stumble in confusion n frustration,
and struggle to get out of the freaking desperation,
there they deliver our satisfaction -another resurrection.

And I know resurrection is after death,
and death is after life, and life begins by birth.
Confucius said: “Why one asks about death,
when he does not grasp the meaning of life? ”
And Jesus said: “If anyone wants to gain life,
then he must die first, to receive his true life.”
But why I mention this topic in my paragraph,
maybe I just wanna show I know something, or add on more words.

But let me offer another way for explaining:
The ending of game is after its beginning,
And the game must end for a new starting,
And in it, whatever we are experiencing
Is just eternal struggling in a flashing;
And in the end, nothing remains its glowing,
Nor greatest ranking, nor highest scoring,
If there are really anything, then I'd say playing, drinking n snoring.

But wait, in the game what a suffering for playing!
Physical, I called it aching, like a nail pulling;
Spiritual, I called it battling, like a bad dating.
But these two are always coming with smiling.
And we can do nothing but to skip and running.
When the physical pain comes with knocking,
the spiritual wound is wrapped and covered,
once our body healed, then spiritual torment revealed.

Pills for cold, surgery for bone fracture,
but what’s the treatment for missing shots?
Chocolate for girls, sorry notes for wife,
But how can we run away from our Own Goal?
Fill up the cups, drink up the whole bottle,
But before we awake, sorrow returns with a stick.
When the body melts, shatters into dust,
our spirit lingers, roams solo as a cursed ghost.

Yeah, no one is sadder than a lonely soul;
as a solo player tries to fit in the team,
plays an unfamiliar game thru an unusual frame:
Communications for a single connection;
Negotiations to deal individual obsession;
and cut-throat competition for a short possession.
One must surf against all the mighty waves,
to find himself and others thru endlessly searching, forever downloading and acceptable uploading.

Struggling life as striving game in a flash,
for single second glory, forever to catch.
So let’s drive it with ease and hush,
and bring no more harms or headless rush.
If it really hurts and our regretful thoughts gush,
then drink beer, shed tear, and kiss our dear.
Even night seems forever, but love never over;
Even we can’t abide together, let’s share before it’s all over.

And my heroes learn from their young age,
that practice makes all things perfect.
When they try to help family cooking,
Mom yells at them: “You need practice! ”
When they miss their easy shots on pitch,
Coach roars at them: “Go Home Practice! ”
When their wife teased them in the morning,
they knew they must work hard in the backyard, kitchen and bathroom.

So their nightly works in a fragrant smell
Breezes kindly in morning winds to miles,
sweetest perfume sweat- irresistible cologne-
70 bucks draws their girl fans to heaven.
Their winning cleats never washed,
Pass down good luck to generations with odor.
So let the ref blow his unfair whistle,
Coz my heroes must dance shirtless for yellow and red cards.

Their game is not only pure physical,
But it also requires some brain, or any;
Most time my heroes use their foot,
And sometimes they also throw their head,
But when their game is on the line,
That time burns to injury count,
And the goal must be achieved,
They will use anything, like their godly hand, vicious elbow and provocative saliva to get things done.

Yeah, the game is a life feast from start to end,
and in it they gather and depart by chance,
thru the taste of sour, sweet, bitter, and hot,
as four season dream they roam to awake.
Sunset and sunrise, moon wanes and wax;
our heroes come and go, rise and fall,
while our passion sings up and shouts out:
The goal of life is a forever chase, and never give-up shot.

This game of war thru peace they exchange,
As life and death exemplified by start and end.
Losing requires tear n beer, nor life, nor blood;
Winning of cup is celebrated in showering wine.
Clubs rearrange all countries and towns,
Nation against nation compete in fair plays,
only the purest concept reigns over all:
Virtuous Way, changing seasons, cultures, wits, and common laws.

No more boundaries and worldly craps,
As what we have submitted for our love:
Options of colors, race and fair looks,
Age for fit, wage for security,
Weights, heights, interests, and habits,
Certificates to speak for minds and wits;
But I long for thy cherry lips and beauty’s rose,
And my size n length to reach thy depth n width,
And my ultimate strength to fulfill thy enduring faith,
If not, then thy merciful forgiveness is my living grace.
And this is moment of my truth -my real bullshits.

My true heroes on green pitch they play;
as injurious insect in the world they beguile.
That they rip off all the crappy covers,
as the bold band of Robin Hood robs the rich for gold,
as the intoxicated outlaw of marsh fighting corruptions,
as the cowboy Jesse James rides riotously in Wild West.
And I raise up my two hands and praise their work:
May their deception in the game never ends.

Oh, deception! How could I forget about!
Wise act as April’s fool; lions speak as meek;
Vultures soar as eagles; and wolves dress as sheep;
Able does not show, giving is to receive;
Enemy is never far, and friends are never close.
Seduce their greed, rob those in chaos,
Avoid the strong, scratch the wrath,
Praise the humbles, and labor the rested,
Separate the close, strike the incautious,
and break into the house of rash head.
But let me stop plagiarizing Sun Zi’s.

Yeah, my heroes are the players that know themselves,
and before their game starts they learn their enemies.
Seasons pass, nights and days, they will never lose.
They launch in a common form and score with surprise.
Ooh, their surprises! Limitless as heavens and earth,
ceaselessly flushes as rolling river and spring water.
Their splashing waves beating the stony shores,
Chunk by chunk the rock are tossed and metal floats.

On the pitch they strike with thunder blow.
Their golden shoes are the cloudy Zeus’ bow,
Aim every wicked hole, and shoot a deadly stroke.
As hawk they soar, as tiger they stalk, as lion they roar,
in sec of flash the old foxes are trapped and choke.
My heroes wax their bow with strength,
Shoot off their silvering arrows in trice,
and beat down their enemies as a giant rock that rolls.

Their great strategy lies in a fluid form,
Changes its infinite shape as time flows;
Swift as high winds that blows, sweeping clouds;
Calm as night forest that grows, unmoving oceans;
Wild as autumn fire that razes, brimstone storms;
Firm as Himalayas that stands, everlasting tall!
They are my monkey king holds a magic staff,
smashes nine heavens and stirs four seas.

People say: “Warriors are born for war,
and they are never made for good date.”
But they are more than heroes and players;
they are lover and mate, and perfect fit.
Coz on our dear mother earth they strive
fearlessly for love, barefoot they pursue;
shamelessly for truth, strip off all their cloth,
Drunk with dreams, and intoxicated for hope.

When their magical sphere rolls and bounces,
Strangers in the world become old time intimate.
One by one and step by step in rhyme and tone,
The world rises to awake, to listen and to echo:
One and two and three, we hold our hand and sing;
Four and five and six, we lean together and dance;
Seven, eight and nine, heaven rains and earth swings;
Ten, eleven and twelve, world melts and spirit joins;
Thirteen, fourteen and sixteen, ah- time stops.

Oh my dreamer! Wake up! Wake up!
Call back your roaming spirit to return,
to the mortal shell of this mirage world.
We don’t call the game, not one, or any.
In chain we are dragged into the coliseum,
we bleed for the worldly gods to drink wine,
we howl bitter tear for ‘the angels’ to sip beer,
we are heroes in our dream, but wake to be slave.

For we rise to end, flourish to decline.
Life goes to death, surviving to end.
Oh love! Topic of two in spirit and mind;
But a single dropp of joy ripples lifetime griefs.
Cupid toys his bow, affection surges and ebbs.
Death preaches his faith, a license to kill,
so we all battle for someone else’ belief,
and offer our tear, blood, and blind faith.

Yeah, world's image clouds and entices,
as the fortune road never in our grasp.
The unseeing stars shiver in deep heavens,
I can see the soaring flies, marching roaches,
hear the symphony of rats, harmonizing;
But I know after dark night, rosy dawn,
after rain storms, then rainbows,
And toward the green field I smile and look.

Winter passes and spring comes quickly,
Sun smiles kindly and rain caresses softly,
Wind blows loving seeds everywhere swiftly,
Willow shade our streets and swing tenderly.
All flowers are blossoming courageously,
spreading their gorgeous petals widely,
and showing off their sweet pistil wildly.
There butterflies offering love dance freely,
Honey bees singing and flying, working n playing joyfully.

Come, my love. Let’s row to the pleasure field,
there we will visit the dream of red chamber,
All the beauties express themselves thru poetry,
As my heroic players en pointed in swan lake;
Their peaceful feet spread blessed good news
To all the children of the green mother earth.
And let’s loose our shoes to play, and be lost;
Coz the pasture of our true heart is holy,
and there we shall stay forever happily.

I will hold your hand, and together we'll fly; and we not gonna touch the blue sky, nor pluck the golden moon, nor stir the star oceans. But we will leap off the high cliff, and free fall, and sink deep into the darkness of downlow, to the mystery of eternity, of the still water, there the Spirit floats, since the beginning of the big bang.

Then, we shall hear the song of birds, wonder the glamour of rainbows, smell the fragrant earth, kiss the flavor roses, taste the sweetest honey dew, pick all the juicy fruit, close our eyes to roam, and plunge into the beauty of Eden – that’s love! And be reborn to a new life.

- The End Is Peace -

(2008.04.08)

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Watching Soccer

Silver light spilled on the green pasture,
Young bucks striving to become heroes.
Thousands thundering songs and drums,
Such wild night suits men’s whole life.

(20080605)

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How Lovely Her Classical Old Face

How lovely her classical old face,
The complete sphere of two colors,
That knit the union of black n white,
Serves the game of amity and peace,
Thru her magic bounce and troll,
Never stops till her world spins,
Angels chant and God smiles.

(20081026)

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Let’s Get On the Green Pitch

Let’s get on the green pitch
Be our own devils or gods
No more waiting weeps
And no more sideline talks

Let’s get on the grassy field
Before the dews dropp off
There we shed our sweat
And there we taste our tear

Let’s get on the cradle bed
Before the world wakes us
There we swing in our dream
And there we look up to stars

Let’s get on with our ball
Before this magic stops
There we chase and fall
There our love never short

Let’s get on and get on
Till that whistle shouts
No more games or dreams
No more breath and no more

(20090413/ Poem for our Chinatown Soccer Club in New York City,
To Coach Gerhard and all playmates and teammates: -)

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It Always Be a Soccer Game

We must conquer it! Mate!
This world of name and fame
Let our life be a fun game
In the days of sunshine or rain

We must not shrink away
From our fear of fault or defeat
Let our time worth in second
Thru all the chance we’ve made

We must never be tamed
By any result or fate
Let our work be forever
In the moment of every take

We must learn to play
For victory, or to lose
Coz whatever our triumph is
It always be a soccer game.

(20091201/After watching Barcelona vs Real Marid)

poem by Laijon Liu
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Dream

'TWAS summer eve; the changeful beams still play'd
On the fir-bark and through the beechen shade;
Still with soft crimson glow'd each floating cloud;
Still the stream glitter'd where the willow bow'd;
Still the pale moon sate silent and alone,
Nor yet the stars had rallied round her throne;
Those diamond courtiers, who, while yet the West
Wears the red shield above his dying breast,
Dare not assume the loss they all desire,
Nor pay their homage to the fainter fire,
But wait in trembling till the Sun's fair light
Fading, shall leave them free to welcome Night!

So when some Chief, whose name through realms afar
Was still the watchword of succesful war,
Met by the fatal hour which waits for all,
Is, on the field he rallied, forced to fall,
The conquerors pause to watch his parting breath,
Awed by the terrors of that mighty death;
Nor dare the meed of victory to claim,
Nor lift the standard to a meaner name,
Till every spark of soul hath ebb'd away,
And leaves what was a hero, common clay.

Oh! Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth
To dim enchantments; melting Heaven with Earth,
Leaving on craggy hills and rumning streams
A softness like the atmosphere of dreams;
Thy hour to all is welcome! Faint and sweet
Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet,
Who, slow returning from his task of toil,
Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil,
And, tho' such radliance round him brightly glows,
Marks the small spark his cottage window throws.
Still as his heart forestals his weary pace,
Fondly he dreams of each familiar face,
Recalls the treasures of his narrow life,
His rosy children, and his sunburnt wife,

To whom his coming is the chief event
Of simple days in cheerful labour spent.
The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past,
And those poor cottagers have only cast
One careless glance on all that show of pride,
Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside;
But him they wait for, him they welcome home,
Fond sentinels look forth to see him come;
The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim,
The frugal meal prepared, are all for him;
For him the watching of that sturdy boy,
For him those smiles of tenderness and joy,
For him,--who plods his sauntering way along,
Whistling the fragment of some village song!

Dear art thou to the lover, thou sweet light,
Fair fleeting sister of the mournful night!
As in impatient hope he stands apart,
Companion'd only by his beating heart,
And with an eager fancy oft beholds
The vision of a white robe's fluttering folds
Flit through the grove, and gain the open mead,
True to the hour by loving hearts agreed!

At length she comes. The evening's holy grace
Mellows the glory of her radiant face;
The curtain of that daylight faint and pale
Hangs round her like the shrouding of a veil;
As, turning with a bashful timid thought,
From the dear welcome she herself hath sought,
Her shadowy profile drawn against the sky
Cheats, while it charms, his fond adoring eye.

Oh! dear to him, to all, since first the flowers
Of happy Eden's consecrated bowers
Heard the low breeze along the branches play,
And God's voice bless the cool hour of the day.
For though that glorious Paradise be lost,
Though earth by blighting storms be roughly cross'd,
Though the long curse demands the tax of sin,
And the day's sorrows with the day begin,
That hour, once sacred to God's presence, still
Keeps itself calmer from the touch of ill,
The holiest hour of earth. Then toil doth cease--
Then from the yoke the oxen find release
Then man rests pausing from his many cares,
And the world teems with children's sunset prayers!

Then innocent things seek out their natural rest,
The babe sinks slumbering on its mother's breast;
The birds beneath their leafy covering creep,
Yea, even the flowers fold up their buds in sleep;
And angels, floating by, on radiant wings,
Hear the low sounds the breeze of evening brings,
Catch the sweet incense as it floats along,
The infant's prayer, the mother's cradle-song,
And bear the holy gifts to worlds afar,
As thigs too sacred for this fallen star.

At such an hour, on such a summer night,
Silent and calm in its transparent light,
A widow'd parent watch'd her slumbering child,
On whose young face the sixteenth summer smiled.
Fair was the face she watch'd! Nor less, because
Beauty's perfection seem'd to make a pause,
And wait, on that smooth brow, some further touch,
Some spell from Time,--the great magician,--such
As calls the closed bud out of hidden gloom,
And bids it wake to glory, light, and bloom.
Girlish as yet, but with the gentle grace
Of a young fawn in its low resting-place,

Her folded limbs were lying: from her hand
A group of wild-flowers,--Nature's brightest band,
Of all that laugh along the Summer fields,
Of all the sunny hedge-row freely yields,
Of all that in the wild-wood darkly hide,
Or on the thyme-bank wave in breezy pride,--
Show'd, that the weariness which closed in sleep
So tranquil, child-like, innocent, and deep,
Nor festal gaiety, nor toilsome hours,
Had brought; but, like a flower among the flowers,
She had been wandering 'neath the Summer sky,
Youth on her lip and gladness in her eye,
Twisting the wild rose from its native thorn,
And the blue scabious from the sunny corn;
Smiling and singing like a spirit fair
That walk'd the world, but had no dwelling there.
And still (as though their faintly-scented breath
Preserv'd a meek fidelity in death)
Each late imprison'd blossom fondly lingers
Within the touch of her unconscious fingers,
Though, languidly unclasp'd, that hand no more
Guards its possession of the rifled store.

So wearily she lay; so sweetly slept;
So by her side fond watch the mother kept;
And, as above her gentle child she bent,
So like they seem'd in form and lineament,
You might have deem'd her face its shadow gave
To the clear mirror of a fountain's wave;
Only in this they differ'd; that, while one
Was warm and radiant as the Summer sun,
The other's smile had more a moonlight play,
For many tears had wept its glow away;
Yet was she fair; of loveliness so true,
That time, which faded, never could subdue:
And though the sleeper, like a half-blown rose,
Show'd bright as angels in her soft repose,
Though bluer veins ran through each snowy lid,
Curtaining sweet eyes, by long dark lashes hid--
Eyes that as yet had never learnt to weep,
But woke up smiling, like a child's, from sleep;
Though fainter lines were pencill'd on the brow,
Which cast soft shadow on the orbs below;
Though deeper colour flush'd her youthful cheek,
In its smooth curve more joyous and less meek,
And fuller seem'd the small and crimson mouth,
With teeth like those that glitter in the South,--
She had but youth's superior brightness, such
As the skill'd painter gives with flattering touch
When he would picture every lingering grace
Which once shone brighter in some copied face;
And it was compliment, whene'er she smiled,
To say, 'Thou'rt like thy mother, my fair child!'

Sweet is the image of the brooding dove!--
Holy as Heaven a mother's tender love!
The love of many prayers and many tears,
Which changes not with dim declining years,--
The only love which on this teeming earth
Asks no return from Passion's wayward birth;
The only love that, with a touch divine,
Displaces from the heart's most secret shrine
The idol SELF. Oh! prized beneath thy due
When life's untried affections all are new,--
Love, from whose calmer hope and holier rest
(Like a fledged bird, impatient of the nest)
The human heart, rebellious, springs to seek
Delights more vehement, in ties more weak;
How strange to us appears, in after-life,
That term of mingled carelessness and strife,

When guardianship so gentle gall'd our pride,
When it was holiday to leave thy side,
When, with dull ignorance that would not learn,
We lost those hours that never can return--
Hours, whose most sweet communion Nature meant
Should be in confidence and kindness spent,
That we (hereafter mourning) might believe
In human faith, though all around deceive;
Might weigh against the sad and startling crowd
Of ills which wound the weak and chill the proud,
Of woes 'neath which (despite of stubborn will,
Philosophy's vain boast, and erring skill)
The strong heart downward like a willow bends,
Failure of love,--and treachery of friends,--
Our recollections of the undefiled,
The sainted tie, of parent and of child!

Oh! happy days! Oh years that glided by,
Scarce chronicled by one poor passing sigh!
When the dark storm sweeps past us, and the soul
Struggles with fainting strength to reach the goal;
When the false baits that lured us only cloy,
What would we give to grasp your vanish'd joy!
From the cold quicksands of Life's treacherous shore
The backward light our anxious eyes explore,
Measure the miles our wandering feet have come,
Sinking heart-weary, far away from home,
Recall the voice that whisper'd love and peace,
The smile that bid our early sorrows cease,
And long to bow our grieving heads, and weep
Low on the gentle breast that lull'd us first to sleep!

Ah! bless'd are they for whom 'mid all their pains
That faithful and unalter'd love remains;
Who, Life wreck'd round them,--hunted from their rest,--
And, by all else forsaken or distress'd,--
Claim, in one heart, their sanctuary and shrine--
As I, my Mother, claim'd my place in thine!

Oft, since that hour, in sadness I retrace
My childhood's vision of thy calm sweet face;
Oft see thy form, its mournful beauty shrouded
In thy black weeds, and coif of widow's woe;
Thy dark expressive eyes all dim and clouded
By that deep wretchedness the lonely know:
Stifling thy grief, to hear some weary task
Conn'd by unwilling lips, with listless air,
Hoarding thy means, lest future need might ask
More than the widow's pittance then could spare.
Hidden, forgotten by the great and gay,
Enduring sorrow, not by fits and starts,
But the long, self-denial, day by day,
Alone amidst thy brood of careless hearts!
Striving to guide, to teach, or to restrain
The young rebellious spirits crowding round,
Who saw not, kuew not, felt not for thy pain,
And could not comfort--yet had power to wound!
Ah! how my selfish heart, which since hath grown
Familiar with deep trials of its own,
With riper judgment looking to the past,
Regrets the careless days that flew so fast,
Stamps with remorse each wasted hour of time,
And darkens every folly into crime!

Warriors and statesmen have their meed of praise,
And what they do or suffer men record;
But the long sacrifice of woman's days
Passes without a thought--without a word;
And many a holy struggle for the sake
Of duties sttenily, faithfully fulfill'd,--
For which the anxious mind must watch and wake,
And the strong feelings of the heart be still'd--
Goes by unheeded as the summer wind,
And leaves no memory and no trace behind!
Yet, it may be, more lofty courage dwells
In one meek heart which braves an adverse fate,
Than his, whose ardent soul indignant swells
Warm'd by the fight, or cheer'd through high debate:
The Soldier dies surrounded;--could he live
Alone to suffer, and alone to strive?

Answer, ye graves, whose suicidal gloom
Shows deeper horror than a common tomb!
Who sleep within? The men who would evade
An unseen lot of which they felt afraid.
Embarrassment of means, which work'd annoy,--
A past remorse,--a future blank of joy,--
The sinful rashness of a blind despair,--
These were the strokes which sent your victims there.

In many a village churchyard's simple grave,
Where all unmark'd the cypress-branches wave;
In many a vault where Death could only claim
The brief inscription of a woman's name;
Of different ranks, and different degrees,
From daily labour to a life of ease,
(From the rich wife who through the weary day
Wept in her jewels, grief's unceasing prey,
To the poor soul who trudged o'er marsh and moor,
And with her baby begg'd from door to door,--)
Lie hearts, which, ere they found that last release,
Had lost all memory of the blessing 'Peace;'
Hearts, whose long struggle through unpitied years
None saw but Him who marks the mourner's tears;
The obscurely noble! who evaded not
The woe which He had will'd should be their lot,
But nerved themselves to bear!

Of such art thou,
My Mother! With thy calm and holy brow,
And high devoted heart, which suffer'd still
Unmurmuring, through each degree of ill.
And, because Fate hath will'd that mine should be
A Poet's soul (at least in my degree),--
And that my verse would faintly shadow forth
What I have seen of pure unselfish worth,--
Therefore I speak of Thee; that those who read
That trust in woman, which is still my creed,
Thy early-widow'd image may recall
And greet thy nature as the type of all!

Enough! With eyes of fond unwearied love
The Mother of my story watch'd above
Her sleeping child; and, as she views the grace
And blushing beauty of that girlish face,
Her thoughts roam back through change of time and tide,
Since first Heaven sent the blessing by her side.

In that sweet vision she again receives
The snow-white cradle, where that tiny head
Lay, like a small bud folded in its leaves,
Foster'd with dew by tears of fondness shed;
Each infantine event, each dangerous hour
Which pass'd with threatening o'er its fragile form,
Her hope, her anguish, as the tender flower
Bloom'd to the sun, or sicken'd in the storm,
In memory's magic mirror glide along,
And scarce she notes the different scene around,
And scarce her lips refrain the cradle-song
Which sooth'd that infant with its lulling sound!

But the dream changes; quiet years roll on;
That dawn of frail existence fleets away,
And she beholds beneath the summer sun
A blessed sight; a little child at play.
The soft light falls upon its golden hair,
And shows a brow intelligently mild;
No more a cipher in this world of care,
Love cheers and chides that happy conscious child.
No more unheeding of her watchful love,
Pride to excel, its docile spirit stirs;
Regret and hope its tiny bosom move,
And looks of fondness brightly answer hers;
O'er the green meadow, and the broomy hill,
In restless joy it bounds and darts along;
Or through the breath of evening, low and still,
Carols with mirthful voice its welcome song.

Again the vision changes; from her view
The CHILD'S dear love and antic mirth are gone;
But, in their stead, with cheek of rose-leaf hue,
And fair slight form, and low and silvery tone,
Rises the sweetest spirit Thought can call
From memory's distant worlds--the fairy GIRL;
Whose heart her childish pleasures still enthrall,
Whose unbound hair still floats in careless curl,
But in whose blue and meekly lifted eyes,
And in whose shy, though sweet and cordial smile,
And in whose changeful blushes, dimly rise
Shadows and lights that were not seen erewhile:
Shadows and lights that speak of woman's love,
Of all that makes or mars her fate below;
Mysterious prophecies, which Time must prove
More bright in glory, or more dark with woe!
And that soft vision also wanders by
Melting in fond and innocent smiles away,
Till the loved REAL meets the watchful eye
Of her who thus recall'd a former day;
The gentle daughter, for whose precious sake
Her widow'd heart had struggled with its pain.
And still through lonely grief refused to break,
Because that tie to Earth did yet remain.
Now, as she fondly gazed, a few meek tears
Stole down her cheek; for she that sliunber'd there,
The beautiful, the loved of many years.
A bride betroth'd must leave her fostering care;
Woo'd in another's home apart to dwell.--
Oh! might that other love but half as well!
As if the mournful wish had touch'd her heart,
The slumbering maiden woke, with sudden start;
Turn'd, with a dazzled and intense surprise,
On that fond face her bright, bewilder'd eyes;
Gazed round on each familiar object near,
As though she doubted yet if sense was clear;
Cover'd her brow and sigh'd, as though to wake
Had power some spell of happy thought to break;
Then murmur'd, in a low and earnest tone,
'Oh! is that blessed dream for ever gone?'

Strange is the power of dreams! Who hath not felt,
When in the morning light such visions melt,
How the veil'd soul, though struggling to be free,
Ruled by that deep, unfathom'd mystery,
Wakes, haunted by the thoughts of good or ill,
Whose shadowy influence pursues us still?

Sometimes remorse doth weigh our spirits down;
Some crime committed earns Heaven's angriest frown;
Some awful sin, in which the tempted heart
Hath scarce, perhaps, forborne its waking part,
Brings dreams of judgment; loud the thunders roll,
The heavens shrink blacken'd like a flaming scroll;
We faint, we die, beneath the avenging rod,
And vainly hide from our offended God.
For oh! though Fancy change our mortal lot,
And rule our slumbers, CONSCIENCE sleepeth not;
What strange sad dial, by its own true light,
Points to our thoughts, how dark soe'er the night,
Still by our pillow watchful guard it keeps,
And bids the sinner tremble while he sleeps.

Sometimes, with fearful dangers doom'd to cope,
'Reft of each wild and visionary hope,
Stabb'd with a thousand wounds, we struggle still,
The hand that tortures, powerless to kill.
Sometimes 'mid ocean storms, in fearful strife,
We stem the wave, and shrieking, gasp for life,
While crowding round us, faces rise and gleam,
Some known and loved, some, pictures of our dream;
High on the buoyant waters wildly toss'd--
Low in its foaming caverns darkly lost--
Those flitting forms the dangerous hour partake,
Cling to our aid, or suffer for our sake.
Conscious of present life, the slumbering soul
Still floats us onward, as the billows roll,
Till, snatch'd from death, we seem to touch the strand,
Rise on the shoreward wave, and dash to land!
Alone we come: the forms whose wild array
Gleam'd round us while we struggled, fade away,--
We know not, reck not, who the danger shared,
But, vaguely dreaming, feel that we are spared.

Sometimes a grief, of fond affection born,
Gnaws at our heart, and bids us weep till morn;
Some anguish, copied from our waking fears,
Wakes the eternal fount of human tears,
Sends us to watch some vision'd bed of death,
Hold the faint hand, and catch the parting breath,
Where those we prized the most, and loved the best,
Seem darkly sinking to the grave's long rest;
Lo! in our arms they fade, they faint, they die,
Before our eyes the funeral train sweeps by;
We hear the orphan's sob--the widow's wail--
O'er our dim senses woeful thoughts prevail,
Till, with a burst of grief, the spell we break,
And, weeping for th' imagined loss, awake.
Ah me! from dreams like these aroused at length,
How leaps the spirit to its former strength!
What memories crowd the newly conscious brain,
What gleams of rapture, and what starts of pain!
Till from the soul the heavy mists stand clear,
All wanes and fades that seem'd so darkly drear,
The sun's fair rays those shades of death destroy,
And passionate thankfuess and tears of joy
Swell at our hearts, as, gazing on his beam,
We start, and cry aloud, 'Thank Heaven, 'twas but a dream!'

But there are visions of a fairer kind,
Thoughts fondly cherish'd by the slumbering mind,
Which, when they vanish from the waking brain,
We close our eyes, and long to dream again.
Their dim voice calls to our forsaken side
Those who betray'd us, seeming true and tried;
Those whom the fast receding waves of time
Have floated from us; those who in the prime
And glory of our young life's eagle flight
Shone round like rays, encircling us with light,
And gave the bright similitude of truth
To fair illusions--vanish'd with our youth.
They bring again the tryst of early love,
(That passionate hope, all other hopes above!)
Bid the pale hair, long shrouded in the grave,
Round the young head in floating ringlets wave,
And fill the air with echoes. Gentle words,
Low laughter, and the sing of sweet birds,
Come round us then; and drooping of light boughs,
Whose shadow could not cool our burning brows,
And lilac-blossoms, scenting the warm air,
And long laburnums, fragile, bright, and fair;
And murmuring breezes through the green leaves straying,
And rippling waters in the sunshine playing,
All that around our slumbering sense can fling
The glory of some half-forgotten spring!
They bring again the fond approving gaze
Of old true friends, who mingled love with praise;
When Fame (that cold bright guiding-star below)
Took from affection's light a borrow'd glow,--
And, strong in all the might of earnest thought,
Through the long studious night untired we wrought,
That others might the morning hour beguile,
With the fond triumph of their wondering smile.
What though those dear approving smiles be gone,
What though we strive neglected and alone,
What though no voice now mourns our hope's alloy,
Nor in the hour of triumph gives us joy?
In dreams the days return when this was not,
When strong affection sooth'd our toilsome lot:
Cheer'd, loved, admonish'd, lauded, we aspire,
And the sick soul regains its former fire.

Beneath the influence of this fond spell,
Happy, contented, bless'd, we seem to dwell;
Sweet faces shine with love's own tender ray,
Which frown, or coldly turn from us, by day;
The lonely orphan hears a parent's voice;
Sad childless mothers once again rejoice;
The poor deserted seems a happy bride;
And the long parted wander side by side.

Ah, vain deceit! Awaking with a start,
Sick grow the beatings of the troubled heart;
Silence, like some dark mantle, drops around,
Quenching th' imagined voice's welcome sound;
Again the soul repeats its old farewells,
Again recalls sad hours and funeral knells;
Again, as daylight opens on their view,
The orplan shrieks, the mother mourns anew;
Till clear we feel, as fades the morning star,
How left, how lonely, how oppres'd we are!

And other dreams exist, more vague and bright
Than MEMORY ever brought to cheer the night;--
Most to the young and happy do they come,
To those who know no shelter but of home;
To those of whom the inspired writer spoke,
When from his lips the words prophetic broke,
Which (conscious of the strong and credulous spell
Experience only in the heart can quell)
Promised the nearer glimpse of perfect truth
Not to cold wisdom, but to fervent youth;
Each, in their measure, caught its fitful gleams,--
The young saw visions, and the old dream'd dreams.

The young! Oh! what should wandering fancy bring
In life's first spring-time but the thoughts of spring?
Worlds without winter, blooming amaranth bowers,
Garlands of brightness wreath'd from changeless flowers;
Where shapes like angels wander to and fro,
Unwing,'d, but glorious, in the noontide glow,
Which steeps the hills, the dales, the earth, the sea,
In one soft flood of golden majesty.
In this world,--so create,--no sighs nor tears,--
No sadness brought with lapse of varying years,

No cold betrayal of the trusting heart,--
No knitting up of love fore-doom'd to part,--
No pain, deformity, nor pale disease,--
No wars,--no tyranny,--no fears that freeze
The rapid current of the restless blood,--
Nor effort scorn'd,--nor act misunderstood,--
No dark remorse for ever-haunting sin,--
But all at peace without--at rest within;
And hopes which gild Thought's wildest waking hours,
Scatter'd around us carelessly as flowers.

Oh! Paradise, in vain dilist thou depart;
Thine image still is stamp'd on every heart!
Though mourning man in vain may seek to trace
The site of that which was his dwelling-place,
Though the four glittering rivers now divide
No realms of beauty with their rolling tide,

Each several life yet opens with the view
Of that unblighted world where Adam drew
The breath of being: in each several mind,
However cramp'd, and fetter'd, and confined,
The innate power of beauty folded lies,
And, like a bud beneath the summer skies,
Blooms out in youth through many a radiant day,
Though in life's winter frost it dies away.

From such a vision, bright with all the fame
Her youth, her innocence, her hope, could frame,
The maiden woke: and, when her shadowy gaze
Had lost the dazzled look of wild amaze
Turn'd on her mother when she first awoke,
Thus to her questioning glanee she answering spoke:--

'Methought, oh! gentle Mother, by thy side
I dwelt no more as now, but through a wide
And sweet world wander'd; nor even then alone;
For ever in that dream's soft light stood one,--
I know not who,--yet most familiar seem'd
The fond companionship of which I dream'd!

A Brother's love, is but a name to me;
A Father's, brighten'd not my infancy;
To me, in childhood's years, no stranger's face
Took, from long habit, friendship's holy grace;
My life hath still been lone, and needed not,
Heaven knows, more perfect love than was my lot
In thy dear heart: how dream'd I then, sweet Mother,
Of any love but thine, who knew no other?

'We seem'd, this shadow and myself, to be
Together by the blue and boundless sea:
No settled home was present to my thought--
No other form my clouded fancy brought;
This one Familiar Presence still beguiled
My every thought, and look'd on me and smiled.
Fair stretch'd in beauty lay the glittering strand,
With low green copses sloping from the land;
And tangled underwood, and sunny fern,
And flowers whose humble names none cared to learn,
Smail starry wild flowers, white and gold and blue,
With leaves turn'd crimson by th' autumnal hue,
Bask'd in the fervour of the noontide glow,
Whose hot rays pierced the thirsty roots below.

The floating nautilus rose clear and pale,
As though a spirit trimm'd its fairy sail,
White and transparent; and beyond it gleam'd
Such light as never yet on Ocean beam'd:
And pink-lipp'd shells, and many-colour'd weeds,
And long brown bulbous things likc jasper beads,
And glistening pearls in beauty faint and fair,
And all things strange, and wonderful, and rare,
Whose true existence travellers make known,
Seem'd scatter'd there, and easily my own.
And then we wove our ciphers in the sands,
All fondly intertwined by loving hands;
And laugh'd to see the rustling snow-white spray
Creep o'er the names, and wash their trace away.
And the storm came not, though the white foam curl'd
In lines of brightness far along the coast;
Though many a ship, with swelling sails unfurl'd,
From the mid-sea to sheltering haven cross'd;
Though the wild billows heaved, and rose, and broke,
One o'er the other with a restless sound,
And the deep spirit of the wind awoke,
Ruffling in wrath each glassy verdant mound;
While onward roll'd that army of huge waves,
Until the foremost, with exulting roar,

Rose, proudly crested, o'er his brother slaves,
And dash'd triumphant on the groaning shore!
For then the Moon rose up, Night's mournful Queen,
'Walking with white feet o'er the troubled Sea,'
And all grew still again, as she had been
Heaven's messenger to bring Tranquillity;
Till, pale and tender, on the glistening main
She sank and smiled like one who loves in vain.
And still we linger'd by that shadowy strand,
Happy, yet full of thought, hand link'd in hand;
The hush'd waves rippling softly at our feet,
The night-breeze freshening o'er the Summer's heat;
With our hearts beating, and our gazing eyes
Fix'd on the star-light of those deep blue skies,
Blessing 'the year, the hour, the place, the time;'
While sounded, faint and far, some turret's midnight chime.

'It pass'd, that vision of the Ocean's might!
I know not how, for in my slumbering mind
There was no movement, all was shifting light,
Through which we floated with the wandering wind;
And, still together, in a different scene,
We look'd on England's woodland, fresh and green.

'No perfume of the cultured rose was there,
Wooing the senses with its garden smell,--
Nor snow-white lily,--call'd so proudly fir,
Though by the poor man's cot she loves to dwell,
Nor finds his little garden scant of room
To bid her stately buds in beauty bloom;--
Nor jasmin, with her pale stars shining through
The myrtle darkness of her leaf's green hue,--
Nor heliotrope, whose grey and heavy wreath
Mimics the orchard blossoms' fruity breath,--
Nor clustering dahlia, with its scentless flowers
Cheating the heart through autumn's faded hours,--
Nor bright chrysanthimum, whose train'd array
Still makes the rich man's winter path look gay,
And bows its hardy head when wild winds blow,
To free its petals from the fallen snow;--
Nor yet carnation;'--
(Thou, beloved of all
The plants that thrive at Art or Nature's call,
By one who greets thee with a weary sigh
As the dear friend of happy days gone by;
By one who names thee last, but loves thee first,
Of all the flowers a garden ever nursed;

The mute remembrancer and gentle token
Of links which heavy hands have roughly broken,
Welcomed through many a Summer with the same
Unalter'd gladness as when first ye came,
And welcomed still, though--as in later years
We often welcome pleasant things--with tears!)

I wander! In the Dream these had no place,--
Nor Sorrow:--all was Nature's freshest grace.

'There, wild geranium, with its woolly stem
And aromatic breath, perfumed the glade;
And fairy speedwell, like some sapphire gem,
Lighted with purple sparks the hedge-row's shade;
And woodbine, with her tinted calyxes,
And dog-rose, glistening with the dews of morn,
And tangled wreaths of tufted clematis,
Whose blossoms pale the careless eye may scorn,
(As green and light her fairy mantles fiLll
To hide the rough hedge or the crumbling wall,)
But in whose breast the laden wild-bees dive
For the best riches of their teeming hive:

'There, sprang the sunny cricket; there, was spread
The fragile silver of the spider's thread,
Stretching from blade to blade of emerald grass,
Unbroken, till some human footstep pass;
There, by the rippling stream that murmur'd on,
Now seen, now hidden--half in light, half Sun--
The darting dragon-fly, with sudden gleam,
Shot, as it went, a gold and purple beam;
And the fish leap'd within the deeper pool,
And the green trees stretch'd out their branches cool,
Where many a bird hush'd in her peopled nest
The unfledged darlings of her feather'd breast,
Listening her mate's clear song, in that sweet grove
Where all around breathed happiness and love!

'And while we talk'd the summer hours flew fast,
As hours may fly, with those whose love is young;
Who fear no future, and who know no past,
Dating existence from the hope that sprung
Up in their hearts with such a sudden light,
That all beyond shows dark and blank as night.

'Until methought we trod a wide flat heath,
Where yew and cypress darkly seem'd to wave
O'er countless tombs, so beautiful, that death
Seem'd here to make a garden of the grave!
All that is holy, tender, full of grace,
Was sculptured on the monuments around,
And many a line the musing eye could trace,
Which spoke unto the heart without a sound.
There lay the warrior and the son of song,
And there--in silence till the judgment-day--
The orator, whose all-persuading tongue
Had moved the nations with resistless sway:
There slept pale men whom science taught to climb
Restlessly upward all their labouring youth;
Who left, half conquer'd, secrets which in time
Burst on mankind in ripe and glorious truth.
He that had gazed upon the steadfast stars,
And could foretel the dark eclipse's birth,
And when red comets in their blazing cars
Should sweep above the awed and troubled earth:--
He that had sped brave vessels o'er the seas,
Which swiftly bring the wanderer to his home,
Uncanvass'd ships, which move without a breeze,
Their bright wheels dashing through the ocean foam:--

All, who in this life's bounded brief career
Had shone amongst, or served their fellow-men,
And left a name embalm'd in glory here,
Lay calmly buried on that magic plain.
And he who wander'd with me in my dream,
Told me their histories as we onward went,
Till the grave shone with such a hallow'd beam,
Such pleasure with their memory seem'd blent,
That, when we look'd to heaven, our upward eyes
With no funereal sadness mock'd the skies!

'Then, change of scene, and time, and place once more;
And by a Gothic window, richly bright,
Whose stain'd armorial hoarings on the floor
Flung the quaint tracery of their colour'd light,
We sate together: his most noble head
Bent o'er the storied tome of other days,
And still he commented on all we read,
And taught me what to love, and what to praise.
Then Spenser made the summer-day seem brief,
Or Milton sounded with a loftier song,
Then Cowper charm'd, with lays of gentle grief,
Or rough old Dryden roll'd the hour along.

Or, in his varied beauty dearer still,
Sweet Shakspeare changed the world around at will;
And we forgot the sunshine of that room
To sit with Jacquez in the forest gloom;
To look abroad with Juliet's anxious eye
For her boy-lover 'neath the moonlight sky;
Stand with Macbeth upon the haunted heath,
Or weep for gentle Desdemona's death;
Watch, on bright Cydnus' wave, the glittering sheen
And silken sails of Egypt's wanton Queen;
Or roam with Ariel through that island strange
Where spirits, and not men, were wont to range,
Still struggling on through brake, and bush, and hollow,
Hearing that sweet voice calling--'Follow! follow!'

'Nor were there wanting lays of other lands,
For these were all familiar in his hands:
And Dante's dream of horror work'd its spell,--
And Petrarch's sadness on our bosoms fell,--
And prison'd Tasso's--he, the coldly-loved,
The madly-loving! he, so deeply proved
By many a year of darkness, like the grave,
For her who dared not plead, or would not save,

For her who thought the poet's suit brought shame,
Whose passion hath immortalized her name!
And Egmont, with his noble heart betray'd,--
And Carlos, haunted by a murder'd shade,--
And Faust's strange legend, sweet and wondrous wild,
Stole many a tear:--Creation's loveliest child!
Guileless, ensnared, and tempted Margaret,
Who could peruse thy fate with eyes unwet?

'Then, through the lands we read of, far away,
The vision led me all a summer's day:
And we look'd round on southern Italy,
Where her dark head the graceful cypress rears
In arrowy straightness and soft majesty,
And the sun's face a mellower glory wears;
Bringing, where'er his warm light richly shines,
Sweet odours from the gum-distilling pines;
And casting o'er white palaces a glow,
Like morning's hue on mountain-peaks of snow.

'Those palaces! how fair their columns rose!
Their courts, cool fountains, and wide porticos!
And ballustraded roofs, whose very form
Told what an unknown stranger was the storm!

In one of these we dwelt: its painted walls
A master's hand had been employ'd to trace;
Its long cool range of shadowy marble halls
Was fill'd with statues of most living grace;
While on its ceilings roll'd the fiery car
Of the bright day-god, chasing night afar,--
Or Jove's young favourite, toward Olympus' height
Soar'd with the Eagle's dark majestic flight,--
Or fair Apollo's harp seem'd freshly strung,
All heaven group'd round him, listening while he sung.

'So, in the garden's plann'd and planted bound
All wore the aspect of enchanted ground;
Thick orange-groves, close arching over head,
Shelter'd the paths our footsteps loved to tread;
Or ilex-trees shut out, with shadow sweet,
Th' oppressive splendour of the noontide heat.
Through the bright vista, at each varying turn,
Gleam'd the white statue, or the graceful urn;
And, paved with many a curved and twisted line
Of fair Mosaic's strange and quaint design,
Terrace on terrace rose, with steep so slight,
That scarce the pausing eye inquired the height,

Till stretch'd beneath in far perspective lay
The glittering city and the deep blue bay!
Then as we turn'd again to groves and bowers,
(Rich with the perfume of a thousand flowers,)
The sultry day was cheated of its force
By the sweet winding of some streamlet's course:
From sculptured arch, and ornamented walls,
Rippled a thousand tiny waterfalls,
While here and there an open basin gave
Rest to the eye and freshness to the wave;
Here, high above the imprison'd waters, stood
Some imaged Naïad, guardian of the flood;
There, in a cool and grotto-like repose,
The sea-born goddess from her shell arose;
Or river-god his fertile urn display'd,
Gushing at distance through the lone arcade,--
Or Triton, lifting his wild conch on high,
Spouted the silver tribute to the sky,--
Or, lovelier still, (because to Nature true,
Even in the thought creative genius drew,)
Some statue-nymph, her bath of beauty o'er,
Stood gently bending by the rocky shore,
And, like Bologna's sweet and graceful dream,
From her moist hair wrung out the living stream.

'Bright was the spot! and still we linger'd on
Unwearied, till the summer-day was done;
Till He, who, when the morning dew was wet,
In glory rose--in equal glory set.
Fair sank his light, unclouded to the last,
And o'er that land its glow of beauty cast;
And the sweet breath of evening air went forth
To cool the bosom of the fainting earth;
To bid the pale-leaved olives lightly wave
Upon their seaward slope (whose waters lave
With listless gentleness the golden strand,
And scarcely leave, and scarce return to land);
Or with its wings of freshness, wandering round,
Visit the heights with many a villa crown'd,
Where the still pine and cypress, side by side,
Look from their distant hills on Ocean's tide.

'The cypress and the pine! Ah, still I see
These thy green children, lovely Italy!
Nature's dear favourites, allow'd to wear
Their summer hue throughout the circling year!
And oft, when wandering out at even-time
To watch the sunsets of a colder clime,

As the dim landscape fades and grows more faint,
Fancy's sweet power a different scene shall paint;
Enrich with deeper tints the colours given
To the pale beauty of our English heaven,--
Bid purple mountains rise among the clouds,
Or deem their mass some marble palace shrouds,--
Trace on the red horizon's level line,
In outlines dark, the high majestic pine,--
And hear, amid the groups of English trees,
His sister cypress murmuring to the breeze!

'Never again shall evening, sweet and still,
Gleam upon river, mountain, rock, or hill,--
Never again shall fresh and budding spring,
Or brighter summer, hue of beauty bring,
In this, the clime where 'tis my lot to dwell,
But shall recall, as by a magic spell,
Thy scenes, dear land of poetry and song!
Bid thy fair statues on my memory throng;
Thy glorious pictures gleam upon my sight
Like fleeting shadows o'er the summer light;
And send my haunted heart to dwell once more,
Glad and entranced by thy delightful shore--
Thy shore, where rolls that blue and tideless sea,
Bright as thyself, thou radiant Italy!

'And there (where Beauty's spirit sure had birth,
Though she hath wander'd since upon the earth,
And scatter'd, as she pass'd, some sparks of thought,
Such as of old her sons of genius wrought,
To show what strength the immortal soul can wield
E'en here, in this its dark and narrow field,
And fill us with a fond inquiring thirst
To see that land which claim'd her triumphs first)
Music was brought--with soft impressive power--
To fill with varying joy the varying hour.
We welcomed it; for welcome still to all
It comes, in cottage, court, or lordly hall;
And in the long bright summer evenings, oft
We sate and listened to some measure soft
From many instruments; or, faint and lone,
(Touch'd by his gentle hand, or by my own,)
The little lute its chorded notes would send
Tender and clear; and with our voices blend
Cadence so true, that, when the breeze swept by,
One mingled echo floated on its sigh!

'And still as day by day we saw depart,
I was the living idol of his heart:
How to make joy a portion of the air
That breathed around me, seem'd his only care.
For me the harp was strung, the page was turn'd;
For me the morning rose, the sunset burn'd;
For me the Spring put on her verdant suit;
For me the Summer flower, the Autumn fruit;
The very world seem'd mine, so mighty strove
For my contentment, that enduring love.

'I see him still, dear mother! Still I hear
That voice so deeply soft, so strangely clear;
Still in the air wild wandering echoes float,
And bring my dream's sweet music note for note!
Oh! shall those sounds no more my fancy bless,
Which fill my heart, and on my memory press?
Shall I no more those sunset clouds behold,
Floating like bright transparent thrones of gold?
The skies, the seas, the hills of glorious blue;
The glades and groves, with glories shining through;
The bands of red and purple, richly seen
Athwart the sky of pale, faint, gem-like green;

When the breeze slept, the earth lay hush'd and still,
When the low sun sank slanting from the hill,
And slow and amber-tinged the moon uprose,
To watch his farewell hour in glory close?
Is all that radiance past--gone by for ever--
And must there in its stead for ever be
The grey, sad sky, the cold and clouded river,
And dismal dwellings by the wintry sea?
E'er half a summer, altering day by day,
In fickle brightness, here, hath pass'd away!
And was that form (whose love might still sustain)
Nought but a vapour of the dreaming brain?--
Would I had slept for ever!'

Sad she sigh'd;
To whom the mournful mother thus replied:--

'Upbraid not Heaven, whose wisdom thus would rule
A world whose changes are the soul's best school:
All dream like thee, and 'tis for Mercy's sake
That those who dream the wildest, soonest wake;
All deem Perfection's system would be found
In giving earthly sense no stint or bound;
All look for happiness beneath the sun,
And each expects what God hath given to none.

'In what an idle luxury of joy
Would thy spoil'd heart its useless hours employ!
In what a selfish loneliness of light
Wouldst thou exist, read we thy dream aright!
How hath thy sleeping spirit broke the chain
Which knits thy human lot to other's pain,
And made this world of peopled millions seem
For thee and for the lover of thy dream!

'Think not my heart with cold indifference heard
The various feelings which in thine have stirr'd,
Or that its sad and weary currents know
Faint sympathy, except for human woe:
Well have the dormant echoes of my breast
Answer'd the joys thy gentle voice express'd;
Conjured a vision of the stately mate
With whom the flattering vision link'd thy fate;
And follow'd thee through grove and woodland wild,
Where so much natural beauty round thee smiled.

'What man so worldly-wise, or chill'd by age,
Who, bending o'er the faint descriptive page,
Recals not such a scene in some falr nook--
(Whereon his eyes, perchance, no more shall look
Some hawthorn copse, some gnarl'd majestic tree,
The favourite play-place of his infancy?
Who has not felt for Cowper's sweet lament,
When twelve years' course their cruel change had sent;
When his fell'd poplars gave no further shade,
And low on earth the blackbird's nest was laid;
When in a desert sunshine, bare and blank,
Lay the green field and river's mossy bank;
And melody of bird or branch no more
Rose with the breeze that swept along the shore?

'Few are the hearts, (nor theirs of kindliest frame,)
On whom fair Nature holds not such a claim;
And oft, in after-life, some simple thing--
A bank of primroses in early Spring--
The tender scent which hidden violets yield--
The sight of cowslips in a meadow-field--
Or young laburnum's pendant yellow chain--
May bring the favourite play-place back again!
Our youthful mates are gone; some dead, some changed,
With whom that pleasant spot was gladly ranged;

Ourselves, perhaps, more alter'd e'en than they--
But there still blooms the blossom-showering May;
There still along the hedge-row's verdant line
The linnet sings, the thorny brambles twine;
Still in the copse a troop of merry elves
Shout--the gay image of our former selves;
And still, with sparkling eyes and eager hands,
Some rosy urchin high on tiptoe stands,
And plucks the ripest berries from the bough--
Which tempts a different generation now!

'What though no real beauty haunt that spot,
By graver minds beheld and noticed not?
Can we forget that once to our young eyes
It wore the aspect of a Paradise?
No; still around its hallow'd precinct lives
The fond mysterious charm that memory gives;
The man recals the feelings of the boy,
And clothes the meanest flower with freshness and with joy.

'Nor think by older hearts forgotten quite
Love's whisper'd words; youth's sweet and strange delight!
They live--though after-memories fade away;
They live--to cheer life's slow declining day;
Haunting the widow by her lonely hearth,
As, meekly smiling at her childrcn's mirth,
She spreads her fair thin hands towards the fire,
To seek the warmth their slacken'd veins require:
Or gladdening her to whom Heaven's mercy spares
Her old companion with his silver hairs;
And while he dozes--changed, and dull, and weak--
And his hush'd grandchild signs, but dares not speak,--
Bidding her watch, with many a tender smile,
The wither'd form which slumbers all the while.

'Yes! sweet the voice of those we loved! the tone
Which cheers our memory as we sit alone,
And will not leave us; the o'er-mastering force,
Whose under-current's strange and hidden course
Bids some chance word, by colder hearts forgot,
Return--and still return--yet weary not
The ear which wooes its sameness! How, when Death
Hath stopp'd with ruthless hand some precious breath,
The memory of the voice he hath destroy'd
Lives in our souls, as in an aching void!

How, through the varying fate of after-years,
When stifled sorrow weeps but casual tears,
If some stray tone seem like the voice we knew,
The heart leaps up with answer faint and true!
Greeting again that sweet, long-vanish'd sound,
As, in earth's nooks of ever-haunted ground,
Strange accident, or man's capricious will,
Wakes the lone echoes, and they answer still!

'Oh! what a shallow fable cheats the age,
When the lost lover, on the motley stage,
Wrapp'd from his mistress in some quaint disguise,
Deceives her ear, because he cheats her eyes!
Rather, if all could fade which charm'd us first,--
If, by some magic stroke, some plague-spot cursed,
All outward semblance left the form beloved
A wreck unrecognised, and half disproved,
At the dear sound of that familiar voice
Her waken'd heart should tremble and rejoice,
Leap to its faith at once,--and spurn the doubt
Which, on such showing, barr'd his welcome out!

'And if even words are sweet, what, what is song,
When lips we love, the melody prolong?
How thrills the soul, and vibrates to that lay,
Swells with the glorious sound, or dies away!
How, to the cadence of the simplest words
That ever hung upon the wild harp's chords,
The breathless heart lies listening; as it felt
All life within it on that music dwelt,
And hush'd the beating pulse's rapid power
By its own will, for that enchanted hour!

'Ay! then to those who love the science well,
Music becomes a passion and a spell!
Music, the tender child of rudest times,
The gentle native of all lands and climes;
Who hymns alike man's cradle and his grave,
Lulls the low cot, or peals along the nave;
Cheers the poor peasant, who his native hills
With wild Tyrolean echoes sweetly fills;
Inspires the Indian's low monotonous chant,
Weaves skilful melodies for Luxury's haunt;
And still, through all these changes, lives the same,
Spirit without a home, without a name,

Coming, where all is discord, strife, and sin,
To prove some innate harmony within
Our listening souls; and lull the heaving breast
With the dim vision of an unknown rest!

'But, dearest child, though many a joy be given
By the pure bounty of all-pitying Heaven,--
Though sweet emotions in our hearts have birth,
As flowers are spangled on the lap of earth,--
Though, with the flag of Hope and Triumph hung
High o'er our heads, we start when life is young,
And onward cheer'd, by sense, and sight, and sound,
Like a launch'd bark, we enter with a bound;
Yet must the dark cloud lour, the tempest fall,
And the same chance of shipwreck waits for all.
Happy are they who leave the harbouring land
Not for a summer voyage, hand in hand,
Pleasure's light slaves; but with an earnest eye
Exploring all the future of their sky;
That so, when Life's career at length is past,
To the right haven they may steer at last,
And safe from hidden rock, or open gale,
Lay by the oar, and furl the slacken'd sail,--
To anchor deeply on that tranquil shore
Where vexing storms can never reach them more!

'Wouldst thou be singled out by partial Heaven
The ONE to whom a cloudless lot is given?
Look round the world, and see what fate is there,
Which justice can pronounce exempt from care:
Though bright they bloom to empty outward show,
There lurks in each some canker-worm of woe;
Still by some thorn the onward step is cross'd,
Nor least repining those who're envied most:
The poor have struggling, toil, and wounded pride,
Which seeks, and seeks in vain, its rags to hide;
The rich, cold jealousies, intrigues, and strife,
And heart-sick discontent which poisons life;
The loved are parted by the hand of Death,
The hated live to curse each other's breath:
The wealthy noble mourns the want of heirs;
While, each the object of incessant prayers,
Gay, hardy sons, around the widow's board,
With careless smiles devour her scanty hoard;
And hear no sorrow in her stifled sigh,
And see no terror in her anxious eye,--

While she in fancy antedates the time
When, scatter'd far and wide in many a clime,
These heirs to nothing but their Father's name
Must earn their bread, and struggle hard for fame;
To sultry India sends her fair-hair'd boy--
Sees the dead desk another's youth employ--
And parts with one to sail the uncertain main,
Never perhaps on earth to meet again!

'Nor ev'n does Love, whose fresh and radiant beam
Gave added brightness to thy wandering dream,
Preserve from bitter touch of ills unknown,
But rather brings strange sorrows of its own.
Various the ways in which our souls are tried;
Love often fails where most our faith relied;
Some wayward heart may win, without a thought,
That which thine own by sacrifice had bought;
May carelessly aside the treasure cast,
And yet be madly worshipp'd to the last;
Whilst thou, forsaken, grieving, left to pine,
Vainly may'st claim his plighted faith as thine;
Vainly his idol's charms with thine compare,
And know thyself as young, as bright, as fair;

Vainly in jealous pangs consume thy day,
And waste the sleepless night in tears away;
Vainly with forced indulgence strive to smile
In the cold world, heart-broken all the while,
Or from its glittering and unquiet crowd,
Thy brain on fire, thy spirit crush'd and bow'd,
Creep home unnoticed, there to weep alone,
Mock'd by a claim which gives thee not thine own,
Which leaves thee bound through all thy blighted youth
To him whose perjured soul hath broke its truth;
While the just world, beholding thee bereft,
Scorns--not his sin--but thee, for being left!

'Ah! never to the Sensualist appeal,
Nor deem his frozen bosom aught can feel.
Affection, root of all fond memories,
Which bids what once hath charm'd for ever please
He knows not: all thy beauty could inspire
Was but a sentiment of low desire:
If from thy check the roses hue be gone,
How should love stay which loved for that alone?
Or, if thy youthful face be still as bright
As when it first entranced his eager sight,

Thou art the same; there is thy fault, thy crime,
Which fades the charms yet spared by rapid Time.
Talk to him of the happy days gone by,
Conceal'd aversion chills his shrinking eye:
While in thine agony thou still dost rave,
Impatient wishes doom thee to the grave;
And if his cold and selfish thought had power
T' accelerate the fatal final hour,
The silent murder were already done,
And thy white tomb would glitter in the sun.
What wouldst thou hold by? What is it to him
That for his sake thy weeping eyes are dim?
His pall'd and wearied senses rove apart,
And for his heart--thou never hadst his heart.

'True, there is better love, whose balance just
Mingles Soul's instinct with our grosser dust,
And leaves affection, strengthening day by day,
Firm to assault, impervious to decay.
To such, a star of hope thy love shall be
Whose stedfast light he still desires to see;
And age shall vainly mar thy beauty's grace,
Or wantons plot to steal into thy place,

Or wild Temptation, from her hidden bowers,
Fling o'er his path her bright but poisonous flowers,--
Dearer to him than all who thus beguile,
Thy faded face, and thy familiar smile;
Thy glance, which still hath welcomed him for years
Now bright with gladness, and now dim with tears!
And if (for we are weak) division come
On wings of discord to that happy home,
Soon is the painful hour of anger past,
Too sharp, too strange an agony to last;
And, like some river's bright abundant tide
Which art or accident hath forced aside,
The well-springs of affection, gushing o'er,
Back to their natural channels flow once more.

'Ah! sad it is when one thus link'd departs!
When Death, that mighty severer of true hearts,
Sweeps through the halls so lately loud in mirth,
And leaves pale Sorrow weeping by the hearth!
Bitter it is to wander there alone,
To fill the vacant place, the empty chair,
With a dear vision of the loved one gone,
And start to see it vaguely melt in air!

Bitter to find all joy that once hath been
Double its value when 'tis pass'd away,--
To feel the blow which Time should make less keen
Increase its burden each successive day,--
To need good counsel, and to miss the voice,
The ever trusted, and the ever true,
Whose tones were wont to cheer our faltering choice,
And show what holy Virtue bade us do,--
To bear deep wrong, and bow the widow'd head
In helpless anguish, no one to defend;
Or worse,--in lieu of him, the kindly dead,
Claim faint assistance from some lukewarm friend,--
Yet scarce perceive the extent of all our loss
Till the fresh tomb be green with gathering moss--
Till many a morn have met our sadden'd eyes
With none to say 'Good morrow;'--many an eve
Sent its red glory through the tranquil skies,
Each bringing with it deeper cause to grieve!

'This is a destiny which may be thine--
The common grief: God will'd it should be mine:
Short was the course our happy love had run,
And hard it was to say 'Thy will be done!'
'Yet those whom man, not God, hath parted, know
A heavier pang, a more enduring woe;
No softening memory mingles with their tears,
Still the wound rankles on through dreary years,
Still the heart feels, in bitterest hours of blame,
It dares not curse the long-familiar name;
Still, vainly free, through many a cheerless day,
From weaker ties turns helplessly away,
Sick for the smiles that bless'd its home of yore,
The natural joys of life that come no more;
And, all bewildered by the abyss, whose gloom
Dark and impassable as is the tomb,
Lies stretch'd between the future and the past,--
Sinks into deep and cold despair at last.

'Heaven give thee poverty, disease, or death,
Each varied ill that waits on human breath,
Rather than bid thee linger out thy life
In the long toil of such unnatural strife.
To wander through the world unreconciled,
Heart weary as a spirit-broken child,
And think it were an hour of bliss like heaven
If thou could'st die--forgiving and forgiven,--
Or with a feverish hope, of anguish born,
(Nerving thy mind to feel indigant scorn
Of all the cruel foes who 'twixt ye stand,
Holding thy heartstrngs with a reckless hand,)
Steal to his presence, now unseen so long,
And claim his mercy who hath dealt the wrong!
Into the aching depths of thy poor heart
Dive, as it were, even to the roots of pain,
And wrench up thoughts that tear thy soul apart,
And burn like fire through thy bewilder'd brain.
Clothe them in passionate words of wild appeal
To teach thy fellow-creature how to feel,--
Pray, weep, exhaust thyself in maddening tears,--
Recal the hopes, the influences of years,--
Kneel, dash thyself upon the senseless ground,
Writhe as the worm writhes with dividing wound,--
Invoke the heaven that knows thy sorrow's truth,
By all the softening memories of youth--
By every hope that cheer'd thine earlier day--
By every tear that washes wrath away--
By every old remembrance long gone by--
By every pang that makes thee yearn to die;
And learn at length how deep and stern a blow
Near hands can strike, and yet no pity show!

'Oh! weak to suffer, savage to inflict,
Is man's commingling nature; hear him now
Some transient trial of his life depict,
Hear him in holy rites a suppliant bow;
See him shrink back from sickness and from pain,
And in his sorrow to his God complain;
'Remit my trespass, spare my sin,' he cries,
'All-merciful, Almighty, and All-wise;
Quench this affliction's bitter whelming tide,
Draw out thy barbed arrow from my side:'--
--And rises from that mockery of prayer
To hale some brother-debtor to despair!

'May this be spared thee! Yet be sure, my child,
(Howe'er that dream thy fancy hath beguiled,)
Some sorrow lurks to cloud thy future fate;
Thy share of tears,--come early or come late,--
Must still be shed; and 'twere as vain a thing
To ask of Nature one perpetual spring
As to evade those sad autumnal hours,
Or deem thy path of life should bloom, all flowers.'

She ceased: and that fair maiden heard the truth
With the fond passionate despair of youth,
Which, new to suffering, gives its sorrow vent
In outward signs and bursts of wild lament:--

'If this be so, then, mother, let me die
Ere yet the glow hath faded from my sky!
Let me die young; before the holy trust
In human kindness crumbles into dust;
Before I suffer what I have not earn'd,
Or see by treachery my truth return'd;
Before the love I live for, fades away;
Before the hopes I cherish'd most, decay;
Befor

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Promises and Dreams

This is a world full of promises and dreams
But promises don't remain as they do seem
Dreams do often take us away
From this world where we live today
I too have travelled a mile far away
Not knowing the way back I should say
But then it was only a dream I had seen
Not facing reality that it had been
I too was promised in the promise land
That I shall one day hold his hand
The days are passing quick I must say
I wonder what's coming up my way...

poem by Meena Mustafa
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Faded Dreams

Faded Dreams
Written by Wilfred Mellers, Sunday, November 18,2012

Now I know dreams don't come true
For I wont be sharing them with you
No walking in the park
No sharing kisses in the dark

No showing you off to my friends
No spending romantic weekends
No more rides for all it's worth
No taking you to the land of my birth

Your tender hands I wanted to hold
Now the truth begins to unfold
Now the music has died
Just because to me you lied

In time all things reveal
Secrets no longer conceal
Happy life to me was ideal
Now I know how you truly feel

Your actions show you don't care
When I call you're not there
To comfort you I did my best
Put above all the rest

Gave you all that I could give
I would go hungry so you could live
Hours with you I did spend
Not even a letter you would send

Now my dreams have faded away
But I'll be alright come what may
Things time will not erase
Questions pondered you couldn't face

No more time on you I'll waste
No longer for the breeze I will chase
Dreams don't always come true
For god knows I had really loved you

poem by Wilfred Mellers
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The Bohemian Dreams

Because my overcoat's in pawn,
I choose to take my glass
Within a little bistro on
The rue du Montparnasse;
The dusty bins with bottles shine,
The counter's lined with zinc,
And there I sit and drink my wine,
And think and think and think.

I think of hoary old Stamboul,
Of Moslem and of Greek,
Of Persian in coat of wool,
Of Kurd and Arab sheikh;
Of all the types of weal and woe,
And as I raise my glass,
Across Galata bridge I know
They pass and pass and pass.

I think of citron-trees aglow,
Of fan-palms shading down,
Of sailors dancing heel and toe
With wenches black and brown;
And though it's all an ocean far
From Yucatan to France,
I'll bet beside the old bazaar
They dance and dance and dance.

I think of Monte Carlo, where
The pallid croupiers call,
And in the gorgeous, guilty air
The gamblers watch the ball;
And as I flick away the foam
With which my beer is crowned,
The wheels beneath the gilded dome
Go round and round and round.

I think of vast Niagara,
Those gulfs of foam a-shine,
Whose mighty roar would stagger a
More prosy bean than mine;
And as the hours I idly spend
Against a greasy wall,
I know that green the waters bend
And fall and fall and fall.

I think of Nijni Novgorod
And Jews who never rest;
And womenfolk with spade and hod
Who slave in Buda-Pest;
Of squat and sturdy Japanese
Who pound the paddy soil,
And as I loaf and smoke at ease
They toil and toil and toil.

I think of shrines in Hindustan,
Of cloistral glooms in Spain,
Of minarets in Ispahan,
Of St. Sophia's fane,
Of convent towers in Palestine,
Of temples in Cathay,
And as I stretch and sip my wine
They pray and pray and pray.

And so my dreams I dwell within,
And visions come and go,
And life is passing like a Cin-
Ematographic Show;
Till just as surely as my pipe
Is underneath my nose,
Amid my visions rich and ripe
I doze and doze and doze.

poem by Robert William Service
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Captive Bird - 12 Bars 12 Dreams

12 BARS

Twelve rusty bars, one frozen lock -
Confined, sublime, an ancient Roc,
Enclosed inside a barren cage -
Her catacomb in sundown sage.

Of former days there is no trace
Except displays of fallen grace -
Twelve dreams, abiding in her place,
Are free and dwell in yawning space:

12 DREAMS

Of wings unfurled, and seething eyes
That dredge the depths of dawning skies
Unclamping clouds that hang below,
Once ice, dissolved in morning's glow;

Of clutching winds that carry free
Beyond a leaden anguished sea
Dispersing dust of stifled stars
Midst chunks of chain in slave bazaars;

Of swooping to a silent shore,
To perch beyond the ocean's roar
Amazed to feel the sobbing breeze
Message the leaves of rooted trees;

Of stalking trails of twilight tramps,
Within the fog of lighthouse lamps
That blink forlorn through caldron nights,
In search of shades of errant Kites;

Of darkling vast deserted lands,
The windswept stones, the shadowed sands,
Where ghosts of Moorish maidens lost
Conceal their groans in mourning frost;

Of blotting out the bloated moon
While feathers beat a banshee tune
And glimmers dance and prance aglow
Upon a pearly pale plateau;

Of tasting cool torrential rains,
Beyond the realm of binding chains,
And sipping freedom they exude
In quite drops of solitude;

Of whisking off a galley crew
Aboard a ship in midnight dew,
Beneath the pierce of seagull's screams
That mock the strands of scarlet streams;

Of sating once an aching craw
With tearing beak, with ripping claw
And echoed by an eldritch screech
While feasting on abandoned beach;

Of restive thoughts and weary wings
That drift on haze and smoky rings
Obscured within the opal shroud
Of her resemblance in the crowd;

Of croaking caws in broken rhyme
Of winter woe, of summer clime,
Of building nests of sundown sage
Beyond outside a barren cage.

poem by Terry O'Leary
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All dreams not come true###(in 500)

All dreams may not come true
All credits due may not accrue
But with true reflection in mind
Ideas newer and newer may emerge and find
though may not be the nature too so kind

Dreaming in day time is not at all good
Good thoughts and efforts work as food
Earnest efforts to come out of wood
Failure may stun and you loose the hope
Still not difficult to walk on tight rope

It is not bad to dream for high sky
Speak always truth and do not lie
You may not have wings to fly
Still nothing wrong to work and try
No need to think or needlessly cry

You must have third sense to rise
All acts should be sensible and wise
Rise and fall is part of the game
Goal and ideas you must frame
No use trying luck or fate to blame

What ever you do must be with resolve?
Take full blame and never try to absolve
Put in best efforts to come out and solve
Full dedication and make everybody to involve
Try to mix with all as soluble dissolve

Despite put in best efforts it may not materialize
Failure may be sure but we may not visualize
All draw backs reasons before us but can’t analyze
Complete system may run into trouble and paralyze
Still strive very hard to see the reason and synchronize

Complete days routine and reflections of day’s thoughts
In night, thoughts clash and hard won battles are fought
Freedom and joy sincerely thought and brought
Stealing in day time but not easily caught
Simply night dreaming when lying in the cot

Continue to seek solution in dream,
Energy not focused but travel in beam
Try very hard and work as team,
Good efforts in direction but not as power game
Not letting any opportunity with excuses lame

So I find easy way to seek refuge in night
Lie low and have good say without light
more and more attention I try to pay
Always hope to find way in form of ray
washing shores with water at feet of bay.

Life doesn’t end with setting of day
Sun may rise again with bright ray
Your hopes may be high and tall
Vast horizon may lie open for all
Try for success without any fall

Come what may be the slogan
Life and opportunities may begun
Nothing to loose with worth attempt
Sometimes you may gain with action prompt

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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I Work To Make My Dreams Come True

My working day draws to its close
The light is leaching from the sky.
The western sky shows tints of rose
appealing to my artists eye

I rose this morning with the sun
And broke my fast at break of day
Then did the chores that must be done
For soon I must be on my way.

I am not yet self sufficient
Although one day I hope to be.
For now I have to be content
with working in a factory.

I am well paid for what I do
I earn enough to pay my way
and add some to my savings too
The same old routine every day.

At half past four I cycle home
Back to where I'd rather be
My collie dog bids me welcome
I loose his chain and set him free

My pot bellied stove may be old
but it still works efficiently
To me it worth its weight in gold
I have no electricity

It heats my home and cooks my food
Cost less than nothing to maintain
All it requires is firewood
And a good clean out now and again

I have my own sweet water well
Although the pump is in the yard
The water flows clear as a bell
I do not need to pump too hard.

Whilst waiting for my meal to heat
There some things I need to do
Before my working day's complete
I feed the goats and chickens too

Then I shall brew a pot of tea
My stew will soon be heated through
I sit relaxing comfortably
There's nothing more I need to do.

Except to eat my meal and plan.
Improvements I intend to do.
I have no doubt at all I can
In time make all my dreams come true.

I am a very patient man
Dreams don't come true overnight.
I knew this when my dream began
It will take time to get it right.

I am quite sure one day I'll be
Free from the need to earn my pay
Escaping from the factory
To live my life a different way.

Growing what I need to eat.
and tending to my goats and hens.
No longer needing to compete
To me my dream makes perfect sense.

Although my friends think I am mad.
To choose to live a simple life.
I am quite sure I shall be glad
To leave behind the cares and strife.

Which daily I'm subjected to
Whilst working in a factory.
Where I am told what I must do.
It is less satisfactory.

Then living independently.
In my own house on my own land.
Which one day soon I hope to be.
My own domain which I command.

No one to tell me what to do.
No one to say me yea or nay.
I work to make my dreams come true
and it draws nearer day by day.

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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No Life Span For Love And Dreams

We're aware
We're aware that between us there's
A haze of ignorance
Our steps but tread the path of our search
But can't see their goal
Much more exquisite and radiant
Than my poems is your inner self
And my eye-glasses are getting thicker every day
Do you know
Why poems and stories become wordless
Trying to poetise us?
They want to know our birth date
The place we were born
And our present age.
What do they know?
Dreams are neither born
Nor ever they die
No register enters their birth statistics

I just don't know
At what point of time did you learn to take your first steps
Holding the dream's little finger
I indeed am that dream
Which no one has never seen
I had died verily the same day
When my father had kicked my mother on her stomach
But I continued to grow inside my grave
Grew so much that
My mother could see me without bending
Once I dropped my camera and broke it
While taking some body's picture
Only then I came to know
Why dreams become utterly black in daylight
Why it's important to have
a dark liquid to expose them
I didn't know that light can be seen only in darkness

We're indeed not what we seem to be
There's some one else in our place
Wearing our costume
Flowing water has no shape
Shapes are but in our eyes
And to see a dream
One doesn't need sleep - but eyes
From protozoan to a human being
The sleep of bilions of evolutionary years
Is but an interval for opening his eyes
Love is the intervening space between life and death
And we use the yardstick of one life span to measure it
And go through a mesquerade of living
But love has no life span
It prevails from an unknown beginning
To an unknown end
At whatever point in time we find it
We fix our separate limits
And then define it with names and relationships
Greater indeed is melancholy than our knowledge and experience
Let it expand
How could one express in words
All that colours, flowers and butterflies convey
There's no other better medium of communication
Than silence to talk to birds, plants and nice people
How do we know - we might simply be
Going through the awakening process
From a dream greater than ourselves
And someone - with his universal eye might be watching us
Do not disturb the soul of God
While it is dreaming.

Poem by: Naseer Ahmed Nasir,1994.
Translated from the original Urdu into English by Satyapal Anand.
Copyrights (C) All rights reserved.

poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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The Sylph Of Summer

God said, Let there be light, and there was light!
At once the glorious sun, at his command,
From space illimitable, void and dark,
Sprang jubilant, and angel hierarchies,
Whose long hosannahs pealed from orb to orb,
Sang, Glory be to Thee, God of all worlds!
Then beautiful the ball of this terrene
Rolled in the beam of first-created day,
And all its elements obeyed the voice
Of Him, the great Creator; Air, and Fire,
And Earth, and Water, each its ministry
Performed, whilst Chaos from his ebon throne
Leaped up; and so magnificent, and decked,
And mantled in its ambient atmosphere,
The living world began its state!
To thee,
Spirit of Air, I lift the venturous song,
Whose viewless presence fills the living scene,
Whose element ten thousand thousand wings
Fan joyous; o'er whose fields the morning clouds
Ride high; whose rule the lightning-shafts obey,
And the deep thunder's long-careering march!
The Winds too are thy subjects; from the breeze,
That, like a child upon a holiday,
On the high mountain's van pursues the down
Of the gray thistle, ere the autumnal shower
Steals soft, and mars his pastime; to the King
Of Hurricanes, that sounds his mighty shell,
And bids Tornado sweep the Western world.
Sylph of the Summer Gale, on thee I call!
Oh, come, when now gay June is in her car,
Wafting the breath of roses as she moves;
Come to this garden bower, which I have hung
With tendrils, and the fragrant eglantine,
And mandrake, rich with many mantling stars!
'Tis pleasant, when thy breath is on the leaves
Without, to rest in this embowering shade,
And mark the green fly, circling to and fro,
O'er the still water, with his dragon wings,
Shooting from bank to bank, now in quick turns,
Then swift athwart, as is the gazer's glance,
Pursuing still his mate; they, with delight,
As if they moved in morris, to the sound
Harmonious of this ever-dripping rill,
Now in advance, now in retreat, now round,
Dart through their mazy rings, and seem to say:
The Summer and the Sun are ours!
But thou,
Sylph of the Summer Gale, delay a while
Thy airy flight, whilst here Francesca leans,
And, charmed by Ossian's harp, seems in the breeze
To hear Malvina's plaint; thou to her ear
Come unperceived, like music of the song
From Cona's vale of streams; _then_ with the bee,
That sounds his horn, busied from flower to flower,
Speed o'er the yellow meadows, breathing ripe
Their summer incense; or amid the furze,
That paints with bloom intense the upland crofts,
With momentary essence tinge thy wings;
Or in the grassy lanes, one after one,
Lift light the nodding foxglove's purple bell.
Thence, to the distant sea, and where the flag
Hangs idly down, without a wavy curl,
Thou hoverest o'er the topmast, or dost raise
The full and flowing mainsail: Steadily,
The helmsman cries, as now thy breath is heard
Among the stirring cordage o'er his head;
So, steadily, he cries, as right he steers,
Speeds our proud ship along the world of waves.
Sylph, may thy favouring breath more gently blow,
More gently round the temples and the cheek
Of him, who, leaving home and friends behind,
In silence musing o'er the ocean leans,
And watches every passing shade that marks
The southern Channel's fast-retiring line;
Then, as the ship rolls on, keeps a long look
Fixed on the lessening Lizard, the last point
Of that delightful country, where he left
All his fond hopes behind: it lessens still;
Still, still it lessens, and now disappears!
He turns, and only sees the waves that rock
Boundless. How many anxious morns shall rise,
How many moons shall light the farthest seas,
O'er what new scenes and regions shall he stray,
A weary man, still thinking of his home,
Ere he again that shore shall view, and greet
With blissful thronging hopes and starting tears,
Of heartfelt welcome, and of warmest love!
Perhaps, ah! never! So didst thou go forth,
My poor lost brother!
The airs of morning as enticing played,
And gently, round thee, and their whisperings
Might sooth (if aught could sooth) a boding heart;
For thou wert bound to visit scenes of death,
Where the sick gale (alas! unlike the breeze
That bore the gently-swelling sail along)
Was tainted with the breath of pestilence,
That smote the silent camp, and night and day
Sat mocking on the putrid carcases.
Thou too didst perish! As the south-west blows,
Thy bones, perhaps, now whiten on the coast
Of old Algarva. I, meantime, these shades
Of village solitude, hoping erewhile
To welcome thee from many a toil restored,
Still deck, and now thy empty urn alone
I meet, where, swaying in the summer gale,
The willow whispers in my evening walk.
Sylph, in thy airy robe, I see thee float,
A rainbow o'er thy head, and in thy hand
The magic instrument, that, as thy wing,
Lucid, and painted like the butterfly's,
Waves to and from, most musically rings;
Sometimes in joyance, as the flaunting leaf
Of the white poplar, sometimes sad and slow,
As bearing pensive airs from Pity's grave.
Soft child of air, thou tendest on his sway,
As gentle Ariel at the bidding hies
Of mighty Prospero; yet other winds
Throng to his wizard 'hest, inspiring some,
Some melancholy, and yet soothing much
The drooping wanderer in the fading copse;
Some terrible, with solitude and death
Attendant on their march:--the wild Simoom,
Riding on whirling spires of burning sand,
That move along the Nubian wilderness,
And bury deep the silent caravan;--
Monsoon, up-starting from his half-year sleep,
Upon the vernal shores of Hindostan,
And tempesting with sounds of torrent rain,
And hail, the darkening main;--and red Sameel,
Blasting and withering, like a rivelled leaf,
The pilgrim as he roams;--Sirocco sad,
That pants, all summer, on the cloudless shores
Of faint Parthenope;--deep in the mine
Oft lurks the lurid messenger of death,
The ghastly fiend that blows, when the pale light
Quivers, and leaves the gasping wretch to die;--
The imp, that when the hollow curfew knolls,
Wanders the misty marish, lighting it
At night with errant and fantastic flame.
Spirit of air, these are thy ministers,
That wait thy will; but thou art all in all,
And dead without thee were the flower, the leaf,
The waving forest rivelled, the great sea
Still, the lithe birds of heaven extinct, and ceased
The soul of melting music.
This fair scene
Lives in thy tender touch, for so it seems;
Whilst universal nature owns thy sway;
From the mute insect on the summer pool,
That with long cobweb legs, firm as on earth
The ostrich skims, flits idly to and fro,
Making no dimple on the watery mass;
To the huge grampus, spouting, as he rolls,
A cataract, amid the cold clear sky,
And furrowing far and wide the northern deep.
Thy presence permeates and fills the whole!
As the poor butterfly, that, painted gay,
With mealy wings, red, amber, white, or dropped
With golden stains, floats o'er the yellow corn,
Idly, as bent on pastime, while the morn
Smiles on his devious voyage; if inclosed
In the exhausted prison, whence thy breath
With suction slow is drawn, he feels the change
How dire! in palsied inanition drops!
Weak flags his weary wing, and weaker yet;
His frame with tremulous convulsion moves
A moment, and the next is still in death.
So were the great and glorious world itself;
The tenants of its continents, all ceased!
A wide, a motionless, a putrid waste,
Its seas! How droops the languid mariner,
When not a breath, along the sluggish main,
Strays on the sultry surface as it sleeps;
When far away the winds are flown, to dash
The congregated ocean on the Cape
Of Southern Africa, leaving the while
The flood's vast surface noiseless, waveless, white,
Beneath Mozambique's long-reflected woods,
A gleaming mirror, spread from east to west,
Where the still ship, as on a bed of glass,
Sits motionless. Awake, ye hurricanes!
Ye winds that harrow up the wintry waste,
Awake! for Thunder in his sounding car,
Flashing thick lightning from the rolling wheels,
And the red volley, charged with instant death,
Were music to this lingering, sickening calm,
The same eternal sunshine; still, all still,
Without a vapour, or a sound.
If thus,
Beneath the burning, breathless atmosphere,
Faint Nature sickening droop; who shall ascend
The height, where Silence, since the world began,
Has sat on Cimborazzo's highest peak,
A thousand toises o'er the cloud's career,
Soaring in finest ether? Far below,
He sees the mountains burning at his feet,
Whose smoke ne'er reached his forehead; never there,
Though the black whirlwind shake the distant shores,
The passing gale has murmured; never there
The eagle's cry has echoed; never there
The solitary condor's weary wing
Hath yet ascended!
Let the rising thought
Beyond the confines of this vapoury vault
Be lifted, to the boundless void of space,
How dread, how infinite! where other worlds,
Ten million and ten million leagues aloft,
In other precincts with their shadows roll.
There roams the sole erratic comet, borne
With lightning speed, yet twice three hundred years
Its destined course accomplishing.
Then whirled,
Far from the attractive orb of central fire,
Back through the dim and infinite abyss,
Dread flaming visitant, ere thou return'st,
Empires may rise and fail; the palaces,
That shone on earth, may vanish like the dews
Of morning, scarce illumined ere they fly.
Dread flaming visitant, who that pursues
Thy long and lonely voyage, ev'n in thought,
(Till thought itself seem in the effort lost,)
But tremblingly exclaims, There is a God:
There is a God who lights ten thousand suns,
Round which revolve worlds wheeling amid worlds.
He launched thy voyage through the vast abyss,
He hears his universe, through all its orbs,
As with one voice, proclaim,
There is a God!
Lifted above this dim diurnal sphere,
So fancy, rising with her theme, ascends,
And voyaging the illimitable void,
Where comets flame, sees other worlds and suns
Emerge, and on this earth, like a dim speck,
Looks down: nor in the wonderful and vast
Of the dread scene magnificent, she views
Alone the Almighty Ruler, but the web
That shines in summer time, and only seen
In the slant sunbeam, wakes a moral thought.
In autumn, when the thin long spider gains
The leafy bush's top, he from his seat
Shoots the soft filament, like threads of air,
Scarce seen, into the sky; and thus sustained,
Boldly ascends into the breezy void,
Dependent on the trembling line he wove,
Insidious, and intent on scenes of spoil
And death:--So mounts Ambition, and aloft
On his proud summit meditates new scenes
Of plunder and dominion, till the breeze
Of fortune change, that blows to empty air
His feeble, frail support, and once again
Leaves him a reptile, struggling in the dust!
But what the world itself, what in His view
Whose dread Omnipotence is over all!
A twinkling air-thread in the vast of space.
And what the works of that proud insect, Man!
His mausoleums, fanes, and pyramids,
Frown in the dusk of long-revolving years,
While generations, as they rise and drop,
Each following each to silence and to dust,
Point as they pass, and say, It was a God
That made them: but nor date, nor name
Oblivion shows; cloud only, rolling on,
And wrapping darker as it rolls, the works
Of man!
Now raised on Contemplation's wing,
The blue vault, fervent with unnumbered stars,
He ranges: speeds, as with an angel's flight,
From orb to orb; sees distant suns illume
The boundless space, then bends his head to earth,
So poor is all he knows!
O'er sanguine fields
Now rides he, armed and crested like the god
Of fabled battles; where he points, pale Death
Strides over weltering carcases; nor leaves,--
But still a horrid shadow, step by step,
Stalks mocking after him, till now the noise
Of rolling acclamation, and the shout
Of multitude on multitude, is past:
The scene of all his triumphs, wormy earth,
Closes upon his perishable pride;
For 'dust he is, and shall to dust return'!
But Conscience, a small voice from heaven replies,
Conscience shall meet him in another world.
Let man, then, walk meek, humble, pure, and just;
Though meek, yet dignified; though humble, raised,
The heir of life and immortality;
Conscious that in this awful world he stands,
He only of all living things, ordained
To think, and know, and feel, there is a God!
Child of the air, though most I love to hear
Thy gentle summons whisper, when the Spring,
At the first carol of the village lark,
Looks out and smiles, or June is in her car;
Not undelightful is the purer air
In winter, when the keen north-east is high,
When frost fantastic his cold garland weaves
Of brittle flowers, or soft-succeeding snows
Gather without apace, and heavy load
The berried sweetbrier, clinging to my pane.
The blackbird, then, that marks the ruddy pods
Peep through the snow, though silent is his song,
Yet, pressed by cold and hunger, ventures near.
The robin group, familiar, muster round
The garden-shed, where, at his dinner set,
The laboured hind strews here and there a crumb
From his brown bread; then heedless of the winds
That blow without, and sweep the shivered snow,
Sees from his broken tube the smoke ascend
On an inverted barrow, as in state
He sits, though poor, the monarch of the scene,
As pondering deep the garden's future state,
His kingdom; the rude instruments of death
Lie at his feet, fashioned with simple skill,
With which he hopes to snare the prowling race,
The mice, rapacious of his vernal hopes.
So seated, on the spring he ruminates,
And solemn as a sophi, moves nor hand,
Nor eye, till haply some more venturous bird,
(The crumbs exhausted that he lately strewed
Upon the groundsill,) with often dipping beak,
And sidelong look, as asking larger dole,
Comes hopping to his feet: and say, ye great,
Ye mighty monarchs of this earthly scene,
What nobler views can elevate the heart
Of a proud patriot king, than thus to chase
The bold rapacious spoilers from the field,
And with an eye of merciful regard
To look on humble worth, wet from the storm,
And chilled by indigence!
But thoughts like these
Ill suit the radiant summer's rosy prime,
And the still temper of the calm blue sky.
The sunny shower is past; at intervals
The silent glittering drops descend; and mark,
Upon the blue bank of yon western cloud,
That looms direct against the emerging orb,
How bright, how beautiful the rainbow's hues
Steal out, how stately bends the graceful arch
Above the hills, and tinging at his foot
The mead and trees! Fancy might think young Hope
Pants for the vision, and with ardent eye
Pursues the unreal shade, and spreads her hands,
Weeping to see it fade, as all her dreams
Have faded.
These, O Air! are but the toys,
That sometimes deck thy fairy element;
So oft the eye observant loves to trace
The colours, and the shadows, and the forms,
That wander o'er the veering atmosphere.
See, in the east, the rare parhelia shine
In mimic glory, and so seem to mock
(Fixed parallel to the ascending or
The majesty, the splendour, and the shape,
Of the sole luminary that informs
The world with light and heat! The halo-ring
Bends over all!
With desultory shafts,
And long and arrowy glance, the night-lights shoot
Pale coruscations o'er the northern sky;
Now lancing to the cope, in sheets of flame,
Now wavering wild, as the reflected wave,
On the arched roof of the umbrageous grot.
Hence Superstition dreams of armaments,
Of fiery conflicts, and of bleeding fields
Of slaughter; so on great Jerusalem,
Ere yet she fell, the flaming meteor glared;
A waving sword ensanguined seemed to point
To the devoted city, and a voice
Was heard, Depart, depart!
The atmosphere,
That with the ceaseless hurry of its clouds,
Encircles the round globe, resembles oft
The passing sunshine, or the glooms that stray
O'er every human spirit.
Thin light streaks
Of thought pass vapoury o'er the vacant mind,
And fade to nothing. Now fantastic gleams
Play, flashing or expiring, of gay hope,
Or deep despair; then clouds of sadness close
In one dark settled gloom, and all the man
Droops, in despondence lost.
Aerial tints
Please most the pensive poet: and the views
He forms, though evanescent, and as vain
As the air's mockery, seem to his eye
Ev'n as substantial images, and shapes,
Till in a hurrying rack they all dissolve.
So in the cloudless sky, amusive shines
The soft and mimic scenery; distant hills
That, in refracted light, hang beautiful
Beneath the golden car of eve, ere yet
The daylight lingering fades.
Hence, on the heights
Of Apennine, far stretching to the south,
The goat-herd, while the westering sun, far off,
Hangs o'er the hazy ocean's brim, beholds
In the horizon's faintly-glowing verge
A landscape, like the rainbow, rise, with rocks
That softened shine, and shores that trend away,
Beneath the winding woods of Sicily,
And Etna, smouldering in the still pale sky;
And dim Messina, with her spires, and bays
That wind among the mountains, and the tower
Of Faro, gleaming on the tranquil straits;
Unreal all, yet on the air impressed,
From light's refracted ray, the shadow seems
The certain scene: the hind astonished views,
Yet most delighted, till at once the light
Changes, and all has vanished!
But to him,
How different in still air the unreal view,
Who wanders in Arabian solitudes,
When, faint with thirst, he sees illusive streams
Shine in the arid desert!
All around,
A silent waste of dark gray sand is spread,
Like ashes; not a speck in heaven appears,
But the red sun, high in his burning noon,
Shoots down intolerable fire: no sound
Of beast, or blast, or moving insect, stirs
The horrid stillness. Oh! what hand will guide
The pilgrim, panting in the trackless dust,
To where the pure and sparkling fountain cheers
The green oasis. See, as now his lip
Hangs parched and quivering, see before him spread
The long and level lake!
He gazes; still
He gazes, till he drops upon the sands,
And to the vision stretches, as he faints,
His feeble hand.
Come, Sylph of Summer, come!
Return to these green pastures, that, remote
From fiery blasts, or deadly blistering frosts,
Beneath the temperate atmosphere rejoice!
A crown of flame, a javelin in his hand,
Like the red arrow that the lightning shoots
Through night, impetuous steeds, and burning wheels,
That, as they whirl, flash to the cope of heaven,
Proclaim the angel of the world of fire!
The ocean-king, lord of the waters, rides
High on his hissing car, whose concave skirrs
The azure deep beneath him, flashing wide,
As to the sun the dark-green wave upturns,
And foaming far behind: sea-horses breast
The bickering surge, with nostrils sounding far,
And eyes that flash above the wave, and necks,
Whose mane, like breakers whitening in the wind,
Toss through the broken foam: he kingly bears
His trident sceptre high; around him play
Nereids, and sea-maids, singing as he rides
Their choral song: huge Triton, weltering on,
With scaly train, at times his wreathed shell
Sounds, that the caverns of old ocean shake!
But milder thou, soft daughter of the air,
Sylph of the Summer, come! the silent shower
Is past, and 'mid the dripping fern, the wren
Peeps, till the sun looks through the clouds again.
Oh, come, and breathe thy gentler influence,
And send a home-felt quiet to my heart,
Soothed as I hear, by fits, thy whisper run,
Stirring the tall acacia's pendent leaves,
And through yon hazel alley rustling soft
Upon the vacant ear!
Yon eastern downs,
That weather-fence the blossoms of the vale,
Where winds from hill to hill the mighty Dike,
Of Woden named, with many an antique mound,
The warrior's grave, bids exercise awake,
And health, the breeze of morning to inhale:
Meantime, remote from storms, the myrtle blooms
Beneath my southern sash.
The hurricane
May rend the pines of snowy Labrador,
The blasting whirlwinds of the desert sweep
The Nubian wilderness--we fear them not;
Nor yet, my country, do thy breezes bear,
From citrons, or the blooming orange-grove,
As in Rousillon's jasmine-bordered vales,
Incense at eve.
But temperate airs are thine,
England; and as thy climate, so thy sons
Partake the temper of thine isle; not rude,
Nor soft, voluptuous, nor effeminate;
Sincere, indeed, and hardy, as becomes
Those who can lift their look elate, and say,
We strike for injured freedom; and yet mild,
And gentle, when the voice of charity
Pleads like a voice from heaven: and, thanks to GOD,
The chain that fettered Afric's groaning race,
The murderous chain, that, link by link, dropped blood,
Is severed; we have lost that foul reproach
To all our virtuous boast!
Humanity,
England, is thine! not _that_ false substitute,
That meretricious sadness, which, all sighs
For lark or lambkin, yet can hear unmoved
The bloodiest orgies of blood-boltered France;
Thine is consistent, manly, rational,
Nor needing the false glow of sentiment
To melt it into sympathy, but mild,
And looking with a gentle eye on all;
Thy manners open, social, yet refined,
Are tempered with reflection; gaiety,
In her long-lighted halls, may lead the dance,
Or wake the sprightly chord; yet nature, truth,
Still warm the ingenuous heart: there is a blush
With those most gay, and lovely; and a tear
With those most manly!
Temperate Liberty
Hath yet the fairest altar on thy shores;
Such, and so warm with patriot energy,
As raised its arm when a false Stuart fled;
Yet mingled with deep wisdom's cautious lore,
That when it bade a Papal tyrant pause
And tremble, held the undeviating reins
On the fierce neck of headlong Anarchy.
Thy Church, (nor here let zealot bigotry,
Vaunting, condemn all altars but its own),
Thy Church, majestic, but not sumptuous,
Sober, but not austere, with lenity
Tempering her fair pre-eminence, sustains
Her liberal charities, yet decent state.
The tempest is abroad; the fearful sounds
Of armament, and gathering tumult, fill
The ear of anxious Europe. If, O GOD!
It is thy will, that in the storm of death,
When we have lifted the brave sword in vain,
We too should sink, sustain us in that hour!
Meantime be mine, in cheerful privacy,
To wait Thy will, not sanguine, nor depressed;
In even course, nor splendid, nor obscure,
To steal through life among my villagers!
The hum of the discordant crowd, the buzz
Of faction, the poor fly that threads the air
Self-pleased, the wasp that points its tiny sting
Unfelt, pass by me like the idle wind
That I regard not; while the Summer Sylph,
That whispers through the laurels, wakes the thought
Of quietude, and home-felt happiness,
And independence, in a land I love!