By the Lake
The old fellow from Shao-ling weeps with stifled sobs as he walks furtively by the bends of the Sepentine on a day in spring. In
the waterside palaces the thousands of doors are locked. For whom have the willows and rushed put on their fresh greenery?
I remember how formerly, when the Emperor's rainbow banner made its way into the South Park, everything in the park
seemed to bloom with a brighter color. The First Lady of the Chao-yang Palace rode in the same carriage as her lord in
attendance at his side, while before the carriage rode maids of honor equipped with bows and arrows, their white horses
champing at golden bits. Leaning back, face skywards, they shot into the clouds; and the Lady laughed gaily when a bird fell to
the ground transfixed by a well-aimed arrow. Where are the bright eyes and the flashing smile now? Tainted with
blood-pollution, her wandering soul cannot make its way back. The clear waters of the Wei flow eastwards, and Chien-ko is
far away: between the one who has gone and the one who remains no communication is possible. It is human to have feelings
and shed tears for such things; but the grasses and flowers of the lakeside go on for ever, unmoved. As evening falls, the city is
full of the dust of foreign horseman. My way is towards the South City, but my gaze turns northward.

Related quotes
Ching-a-ling Song
(as heard on the deram antholgy 1997)
Whilst flying through an azure cloud
A crystal girl Id spy
She kissed the blue birds honey tongue
And stuttered as she sighed
I wish to sing the chicken song
Ching-a-ling song is fine
Id give my jewels and caviar
To make this daydream mine
Ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling,
Ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling,
Ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling
Doo dah doo doo dah dah, doo dah dah dah dah dah dah dah
While stepping through a heavens eye
Two lover souls we spied
They wished the cloud boys sang to me
A cheerful happy cry
We love to play our love-strong hearts
No better do we know
No gifts of money do we give
For love is all we own
Na na na na na na, na na na na na na na na
Ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling,
Ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling,
Ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling
Na na na na na na, na na na na na na na na
Ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling,
Ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling,
Ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling, ching-a-ling
song performed by David Bowie
Added by Lucian Velea
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By The Lake
The old fellow from Shao-ling weeps with stifled sobs as he walks furtively by the bends of the Sepentine on a day in spring.
In the waterside palaces the thousands of doors are locked. For whom have the willows and rushed put on their fresh greenery?
I remember how formerly, when the Emperor's rainbow banner made its way into the South Park, everything in the park seemed to bloom with a brighter color. The First Lady of the Chao-yang Palace rode in the same carriage as her lord in
attendance at his side, while before the carriage rode maids of honour equipped with bows and arrows, their white horses champing at golden bits.
Leaning back, face skywards, they shot into the clouds; and the Lady laughed gaily when a bird fell to the ground transfixed by a well-aimed arrow.
Where are the bright eyes and the flashing smile now?
Tainted with blood-pollution, her wandering soul cannot make its way back.
The clear waters of the Wei flow eastwards, and Chien-ko is far away: between the one who has gone and the one who remains no communication is possible.
It is human to have feelings and shed tears for such things; but the grasses and flowers of the lakeside go on for ever, unmoved.
As evening falls, the city is full of the dust of foreign horseman. My way is towards the South City, but my gaze turns northward. (tr. Hawkes)


The Cap And Bells; Or, The Jealousies: A Faery Tale -- Unfinished
I.
In midmost Ind, beside Hydaspes cool,
There stood, or hover'd, tremulous in the air,
A faery city 'neath the potent rule
Of Emperor Elfinan; fam'd ev'rywhere
For love of mortal women, maidens fair,
Whose lips were solid, whose soft hands were made
Of a fit mould and beauty, ripe and rare,
To tamper his slight wooing, warm yet staid:
He lov'd girls smooth as shades, but hated a mere shade.
II.
This was a crime forbidden by the law;
And all the priesthood of his city wept,
For ruin and dismay they well foresaw,
If impious prince no bound or limit kept,
And faery Zendervester overstept;
They wept, he sin'd, and still he would sin on,
They dreamt of sin, and he sin'd while they slept;
In vain the pulpit thunder'd at the throne,
Caricature was vain, and vain the tart lampoon.
III.
Which seeing, his high court of parliament
Laid a remonstrance at his Highness' feet,
Praying his royal senses to content
Themselves with what in faery land was sweet,
Befitting best that shade with shade should meet:
Whereat, to calm their fears, he promis'd soon
From mortal tempters all to make retreat,--
Aye, even on the first of the new moon,
An immaterial wife to espouse as heaven's boon.
IV.
Meantime he sent a fluttering embassy
To Pigmio, of Imaus sovereign,
To half beg, and half demand, respectfully,
The hand of his fair daughter Bellanaine;
An audience had, and speeching done, they gain
Their point, and bring the weeping bride away;
Whom, with but one attendant, safely lain
Upon their wings, they bore in bright array,
While little harps were touch'd by many a lyric fay.
V.
As in old pictures tender cherubim
A child's soul thro' the sapphir'd canvas bear,
So, thro' a real heaven, on they swim
With the sweet princess on her plumag'd lair,
Speed giving to the winds her lustrous hair;
[...] Read more
poem by John Keats
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Lana
Roy orbison
Zuhm-ma zhum-ma-zhum-ma,
Zuhm-ma zhum-ma-zhum-ma
Zuhm-ma zhum-ma-zhum-ma,
Zuhm-ma zhum-ma-zhum-ma
Zuhm-ma zhum-ma-zhum-ma,
Zuhm-ma zhum-ma-zhum-ma
Ma-ma-ma-ma ma-ma-ma-ma-ma
Oh, beautiful lana
I told it my mama
And my dad
What I had
Was the sweetest
And the neatest
Little girl
In the world
Oh la-la-la-la lana
La-la-la-la lana
Hey hey lana
He- he- hey
O- oh lana
Dont make me blue
O- oh lana
Dont you know
Dont you know
I love you
Ling-a ling-a-ling-a
Ling-a ling-a-ling-a
Ling-a ling-a-ling-a
Ling-a ling-a-ling-a
Ling-a ling-a-ling-a
Ling-a ling-a-ling-a
Ma-ma-ma-ma ma-ma-ma-ma-ma
Oh beautiful lana
Dont you know that I wanna
Hug and kiss you
Let you know that I miss you
While were apart
Oh my heart
All it can say is
L-a-n-a
L-a-n-a
L-a-n-a
L-a-n-a
Oh la-la-la-la lana
La-la-la-la-lana
Oh la-la-la-la lana
La-la-la-la lana
Hey hey lana
He- he- hey
song performed by Roy Orbison
Added by Lucian Velea
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A Country Path in Late Spring
The path of mossy ground nestled
In between maternal hedgerows,
That overgrew atop, dimming down
The brilliance of the day.
Embosomed, a calm-cool vision –
Abstract takes of nature, in
Leaf-spattered green shades;
Stem-speckled brown hues;
Shards of sunlight percolating
Through the random flaws to
Up glittering sprites upon the leaves.
And avian chatter bounced along the burrow,
Smattered by the crosstalk
Of busybody insects;
But outside the green comfort zone,
Other worlds of other sounds of other life
Otherwise gave a hint of
Other dozy goings on.
Hawthorn filled the air,
Filled the nose,
Filled the head –
Pungency had overpowered all –
Gave the late-spring-early-summer haze.
Here and there a break of colour:
Odd bluebells – escapees from nearby woods –
Blue-blushing bell faces glancing down,
Aware of their erectness in the stem;
The flaming wing of red admirals
Broke through a hedge hole to
Break up the calm backdrop,
While flitting blue tits gave
To greater-bodied animation.
Nature’s warm narration –
The undertones of life.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
[...] Read more
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Sing Of The Banner At Day-Break
POET.
O A new song, a free song,
Flapping, flapping, flapping, flapping, by sounds, by voices clearer,
By the wind's voice and that of the drum,
By the banner's voice, and child's voice, and sea's voice, and
father's voice,
Low on the ground and high in the air,
On the ground where father and child stand,
In the upward air where their eyes turn,
Where the banner at day-break is flapping.
Words! book-words! what are you?
Words no more, for hearken and see, 10
My song is there in the open air--and I must sing,
With the banner and pennant a-flapping.
I'll weave the chord and twine in,
Man's desire and babe's desire--I'll twine them in, I'll put in life;
I'll put the bayonet's flashing point--I'll let bullets and slugs
whizz;
(As one carrying a symbol and menace, far into the future,
Crying with trumpet voice, Arouse and beware! Beware and arouse!)
I'll pour the verse with streams of blood, full of volition, full of
joy;
Then loosen, launch forth, to go and compete,
With the banner and pennant a-flapping. 20
PENNANT.
Come up here, bard, bard;
Come up here, soul, soul;
Come up here, dear little child,
To fly in the clouds and winds with me, and play with the measureless
light.
CHILD.
Father, what is that in the sky beckoning to me with long finger?
And what does it say to me all the while?
FATHER.
Nothing, my babe, you see in the sky;
And nothing at all to you it says. But look you, my babe,
Look at these dazzling things in the houses, and see you the money-
shops opening;
And see you the vehicles preparing to crawl along the streets with
goods: 10
These! ah, these! how valued and toil'd for, these!
[...] Read more
poem by Walt Whitman
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I remember, I remember - Past and Present after Thomas Hood and William Wordsworth - Lucy
I remember, I remember
the house where I was born
before foreclosure took away
the homestead I had sworn
in good faith, all attest 'tis true,
to leave grandchildren three: -
times change, leave little rest, I rue
that difference to me!
It seems so very long ago
the liberating Yanks
found welcome everywhere they'd go -
though some were pita swanks,
but since the Shah announced 'I ran'
our bearings all at sea
became - time reeled again would ban
all difference for me!
I remember, I remember
the sun porch, now in pawn,
proud flag a flying red, white, blue,
which now hangs so forlorn
Sun, moon spun round each priceless day,
or so I seemed to see,
four bucks a gallon gas I pay -
what difference to me!
My mind thought then nostalgic ease
eternally could last,
all my desires, priorities
seemed sated very fast,
The fever on my brow shoots higher
now Sheiks of Araby,
up ante for crude imports, tire -
what difference to me!
I remember, I remember
before Alaskan oil
had spilled upon once pristine shore,
polluting fauna, soil.
With climate change I'm feeling sore,
note each commodity
continues rising more and more -
what difference to me!
Back then I'd travel aimlessly,
cared not I ran Iraq,
from dawn till dark, from sea to sea
could, rising with the lark,
ignore the cost of gasoline
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Bell Of Freedom
Philadelphia's the home of freedom.
Liberty stands at the sound of a bell.
Freedom for the world.That's my religion.
Freedom in the states.That's the way it should be.
Ring-a-ling-a-ling.Here the bell of freedom.
Ring-a-ling-a-ling.Let's also ring this bell for the world.
There's a statue of a lady.In New York City.
Her torch burning bright, for the world to see.
Her meaning's just the same.She looks so pretty.
But nothing like the bell that rings so free.
Philadelphia's the home of freedom.
Liberty stands at the sound of a bell.
Freedom for the world.That's my religion.
Freedom in the states.That's the way it should be.
Ring-a-ling-a-ling.Hear the bell of freedom.
Ring-a-ling-a-ling.Let's also ring this bell for the world.
There's a flag that flies.It holds the same meaning.
Those stars and stripes, just wave in the air.
This flag's got a name.It's called Old Glory.
This flag flies along.While we're ringing the bell.
Ring-a-ling-a-ling.Hear the bell of freedom.
Ring-a-ling-a-ling.Let's also ring this bell for the world.
Philadelphia's the home of freedom.
Liberty stands at the sound of a bell.
Freedom for the world.That's my religion.
Freedom in the states.That's the way it should be.
Ring-a-ling-a-ling.Hear the bell of freedom.
Ring-a-ling-a-ling.Let's also ring this bell for the world...
Patriotic-Song-Poem By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2002,2009..
ALL rights reserved..
poem by Kim Robin Edwards
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One Way To Go
Youve got to lift yourself up so high
Youve got to lift yourself up so high
You cant see the ground
You cant see the ground
You dont hear a sound
You dont hear a sound
Youve got to move it up so slow
Youve got to move it up so slow
You see it all
You see it all
Youll probably fall
Youll probably fall
Id rather die than see you fly
Than see you try
Id rather die than see you fly
Id rather die than see you fly
Than see you try
Than see you try
Id rather die than see you fly
Than see you try
Its like pushing locked doors to get in your mind
I dont care what I find
Its like pushing locked doors to get in your mind
Its like pushing locked doors to get in your mind
I dont know what Ill find
I dont care what I find
Its like pushing locked doors to get in your mind
Youve got to move me up
I dont know what Ill find
So high it hurts
So high it burns
But if you let me down
Youve got to move me up
Dont bother to call
So high it hurts
Just let me fall
So high it burns
Id rather die than see you fly
But if you let me down
Than see you try
Dont bother to call
Id rather die than see you fly
Just let me fall
Than see you try
Id rather die than see you fly
Than see you try
Its like pushing locked doors to get in your mind
Id rather die than see you fly
I dont know what Ill find
Than see you try
[...] Read more
song performed by Verve
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One Way To Go
Youve got to lift yourself up so high
Youve got to lift yourself up so high
You cant see the ground
You cant see the ground
You dont hear a sound
You dont hear a sound
Youve got to move it up so slow
Youve got to move it up so slow
You see it all
You see it all
Youll probably fall
Youll probably fall
Id rather die than see you fly
Than see you try
Id rather die than see you fly
Id rather die than see you fly
Than see you try
Than see you try
Id rather die than see you fly
Than see you try
Its like pushing locked doors to get in your mind
I dont care what I find
Its like pushing locked doors to get in your mind
Its like pushing locked doors to get in your mind
I dont know what Ill find
I dont care what I find
Its like pushing locked doors to get in your mind
Youve got to move me up
I dont know what Ill find
So high it hurts
So high it burns
But if you let me down
Youve got to move me up
Dont bother to call
So high it hurts
Just let me fall
So high it burns
Id rather die than see you fly
But if you let me down
Than see you try
Dont bother to call
Id rather die than see you fly
Just let me fall
Than see you try
Id rather die than see you fly
Than see you try
Its like pushing locked doors to get in your mind
Id rather die than see you fly
I dont know what Ill find
Than see you try
[...] Read more
song performed by Verve
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The Georgics
GEORGIC I
What makes the cornfield smile; beneath what star
Maecenas, it is meet to turn the sod
Or marry elm with vine; how tend the steer;
What pains for cattle-keeping, or what proof
Of patient trial serves for thrifty bees;-
Such are my themes.
O universal lights
Most glorious! ye that lead the gliding year
Along the sky, Liber and Ceres mild,
If by your bounty holpen earth once changed
Chaonian acorn for the plump wheat-ear,
And mingled with the grape, your new-found gift,
The draughts of Achelous; and ye Fauns
To rustics ever kind, come foot it, Fauns
And Dryad-maids together; your gifts I sing.
And thou, for whose delight the war-horse first
Sprang from earth's womb at thy great trident's stroke,
Neptune; and haunter of the groves, for whom
Three hundred snow-white heifers browse the brakes,
The fertile brakes of Ceos; and clothed in power,
Thy native forest and Lycean lawns,
Pan, shepherd-god, forsaking, as the love
Of thine own Maenalus constrains thee, hear
And help, O lord of Tegea! And thou, too,
Minerva, from whose hand the olive sprung;
And boy-discoverer of the curved plough;
And, bearing a young cypress root-uptorn,
Silvanus, and Gods all and Goddesses,
Who make the fields your care, both ye who nurse
The tender unsown increase, and from heaven
Shed on man's sowing the riches of your rain:
And thou, even thou, of whom we know not yet
What mansion of the skies shall hold thee soon,
Whether to watch o'er cities be thy will,
Great Caesar, and to take the earth in charge,
That so the mighty world may welcome thee
Lord of her increase, master of her times,
Binding thy mother's myrtle round thy brow,
Or as the boundless ocean's God thou come,
Sole dread of seamen, till far Thule bow
Before thee, and Tethys win thee to her son
With all her waves for dower; or as a star
Lend thy fresh beams our lagging months to cheer,
Where 'twixt the Maid and those pursuing Claws
A space is opening; see! red Scorpio's self
His arms draws in, yea, and hath left thee more
Than thy full meed of heaven: be what thou wilt-
For neither Tartarus hopes to call thee king,
[...] Read more

Robbing the Tomb
The year was bad, the crops were burnt,
The dragon turned his back,
The River Wei was almost dry
The earth was brown, and cracked,
The peasant army, risen up
Destroyed the House of Chin,
Set fire to all their palaces,
Their army turned and ran.
But we were left with nothing since
The death of Chin Shi Huang,
That first and greatest Emperor
Who'd ruled across the land,
He lay within his tomb up there
Hid deep within Mount Li,
And left us all with nothing but
A distant memory.
So Wang and Tong, my neighbours
With both Zheng and Shao along,
Had thought about the riches that
Lay underneath the ground,
They'd murdered all the builders and
The architects, the slaves,
So no-one could reveal the plans
Of Chin Shi Huang-ti's grave.
The ruling class were weak, had fled,
We thought this was our chance,
Why shouldn't we be rich, we thought,
We'd fought with sword and lance,
We'd long defended Chin Shi Huang
So now we should be paid,
The riches of the tomb lay there
Down where his corpse was laid.
'You know the penalty for this, '
Said Shao, 'we'll lose our heads,
If anyone should get to hear
That we've disturbed the dead.'
'We're going to die soon anyway, '
Croaked Zheng, 'you'd rather starve?
I'd risk my head for just one ring...'
The rest of us just laughed.
'What if his ghost has roamed abroad
To rage and roar at us?
Down in that ghostly sepulchre
Where he was laid in trust? '
'No man survived to see beneath
[...] Read more
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Canto the Fourth
I.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter’s wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying glory smiles
O’er the far times when many a subject land
Looked to the wingèd Lion’s marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!
II.
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers:
And such she was; her daughters had their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East
Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she robed, and of her feast
Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.
III.
In Venice, Tasso’s echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone - but beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade - but Nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!
IV.
But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless city’s vanished sway;
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away -
The keystones of the arch! though all were o’er,
For us repeopled were the solitary shore.
V.
[...] Read more
poem by Byron from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1818)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Song of Unending Sorrow.
China's Emperor, craving beauty that might shake an empire,
Was on the throne for many years, searching, never finding,
Till a little child of the Yang clan, hardly even grown,
Bred in an inner chamber, with no one knowing her,
But with graces granted by heaven and not to be concealed,
At last one day was chosen for the imperial household.
If she but turned her head and smiled, there were cast a hundred spells,
And the powder and paint of the Six Palaces faded into nothing.
...It was early spring. They bathed her in the FlowerPure Pool,
Which warmed and smoothed the creamy-tinted crystal of her skin,
And, because of her languor, a maid was lifting her
When first the Emperor noticed her and chose her for his bride.
The cloud of her hair, petal of her cheek, gold ripples of her crown when she moved,
Were sheltered on spring evenings by warm hibiscus curtains;
But nights of spring were short and the sun arose too soon,
And the Emperor, from that time forth, forsook his early hearings
And lavished all his time on her with feasts and revelry,
His mistress of the spring, his despot of the night.
There were other ladies in his court, three thousand of rare beauty,
But his favours to three thousand were concentered in one body.
By the time she was dressed in her Golden Chamber, it would be almost evening;
And when tables were cleared in the Tower of Jade, she would loiter, slow with wine.
Her sisters and her brothers all were given titles;
And, because she so illumined and glorified her clan,
She brought to every father, every mother through the empire,
Happiness when a girl was born rather than a boy.
...High rose Li Palace, entering blue clouds,
And far and wide the breezes carried magical notes
Of soft song and slow dance, of string and bamboo music.
The Emperor's eyes could never gaze on her enough-
Till war-drums, booming from Yuyang, shocked the whole earth
And broke the tunes of The Rainbow Skirt and the Feathered Coat.
The Forbidden City, the nine-tiered palace, loomed in the dust
From thousands of horses and chariots headed southwest.
The imperial flag opened the way, now moving and now pausing- -
But thirty miles from the capital, beyond the western gate,
The men of the army stopped, not one of them would stir
Till under their horses' hoofs they might trample those moth- eyebrows....
Flowery hairpins fell to the ground, no one picked them up,
And a green and white jade hair-tassel and a yellowgold hair- bird.
The Emperor could not save her, he could only cover his face.
And later when he turned to look, the place of blood and tears
Was hidden in a yellow dust blown by a cold wind.
... At the cleft of the Dagger-Tower Trail they crisscrossed through a cloud-line
Under Omei Mountain. The last few came.
Flags and banners lost their colour in the fading sunlight....
But as waters of Shu are always green and its mountains always blue,
So changeless was His Majesty's love and deeper than the days.
He stared at the desolate moon from his temporary palace.
He heard bell-notes in the evening rain, cutting at his breast.
[...] Read more
poem by Bai Juyi
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The Four Seasons : Spring
Come, gentle Spring! ethereal Mildness! come,
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While music wakes around, veil'd in a shower
Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.
O Hertford, fitted or to shine in courts
With unaffected grace, or walk the plain
With innocence and meditation join'd
In soft assemblage, listen to my song,
Which thy own Season paints; when Nature all
Is blooming and benevolent, like thee.
And see where surly Winter passes off,
Far to the north, and calls his ruffian blasts:
His blasts obey, and quit the howling hill,
The shatter'd forest, and the ravaged vale;
While softer gales succeed, at whose kind touch,
Dissolving snows in livid torrents lost,
The mountains lift their green heads to the sky.
As yet the trembling year is unconfirm'd,
And Winter oft at eve resumes the breeze,
Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets
Deform the day delightless: so that scarce
The bittern knows his time, with bill ingulf'd,
To shake the sounding marsh; or from the shore
The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath,
And sing their wild notes to the listening waste
At last from Aries rolls the bounteous sun,
And the bright Bull receives him. Then no more
The expansive atmosphere is cramp'd with cold
But, full of life and vivifying soul,
Lifts the light clouds sublime, and spreads then thin,
Fleecy, and white, o'er all-surrounding heaven.
Forth fly the tepid airs: and unconfined,
Unbinding earth, the moving softness strays.
Joyous, the impatient husbandman perceives
Relenting Nature, and his lusty steers
Drives from their stalls, to where the well used plough
Lies in the furrow, loosen'd from the frost.
There, unrefusing, to the harness'd yoke
They lend their shoulder, and begin their toil,
Cheer'd by the simple song and soaring lark.
Meanwhile incumbent o'er the shining share
The master leans, removes the obstructing clay,
Winds the whole work, and sidelong lays the glebe
While through the neighbouring fields the sowe stalks,
With measured step, and liberal throws the grain
Into the faithful bosom of the ground;
The harrow follows harsh, and shuts the scene.
Be gracious, Heaven! for now laborious Man
Has done his part. Ye fostering breezes, blow!
Ye softening dews, ye tender showers, descend!
[...] Read more
poem by James Thomson
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Hello, Rainbow!
Rainbow, Rainbow
that was her nickname.
A name she had obtained,
for all the colors she'd appreciate.
Rainbow, Rainbow
that was her calling
to come out in style to show the worlds vibrant.
Rainbow, Rainbow
they laughed at her colors
said she was different
not normal like others.
Rainbow, Rainbow
they took her as a joke.
Just a mere girl looking for attention you know?
Rainbow, Rainbow
lover of rain
not a care in the world of what other people say.
Rainbow, Rainbow
she started too change
The world saw her brightly
now shes all black and grey.
Rainbow, Rainbow
why goes this way.
We've all secretly loved you.
So why not stay the same!
Rainbow, Rainbow
you bring us joy
You shed light too our day.
So go back to your ways
Rainbow, Rainbow
we appreciate your love!
We see differently now
so stay who you are.
Rainbow, Rainbow!
That's who I am.
A girl of 14
who is oddly at best.
Rainbow, Rainbow!
Everyone calls me that.
I'm just a use for you all
, but i don't mind that.
Rainbow, Rainbow
A mirror image I am.
A reflection of colors
that most people don't understand.
Rainbow, Rainbow
you called my name?
Why hello I'm here.
To shed light to your day
poem by Michelle Mawyin
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The Troubadour. Canto 1
CALL to mind your loveliest dream,--
When your sleep is lull'd by a mountain stream,
When your pillow is made of the violet,
And over your head the branches are met
Of a lime-tree cover'd with bloom and bees,
When the roses' breath is on the breeze,
When odours and light on your eyelids press
With summer's delicious idleness;
And upon you some shadowy likeness may glance
Of the faery banks of the bright Durance;
Just where at first its current flows
'Mid willows and its own white rose,--
Its clear and early tide, or ere
A shade, save trees, its waters bear.
The sun, like an Indian king, has left
To that fair river a royal gift
Of gold and purple; no longer shines
His broad red disk o'er that forest of pines
Sweeping beneath the burning sky
Like a death-black ocean, whose billows lie
Dreaming dark dreams of storm in their sleep
When the wings of the tempest shall over them sweep.
--And with its towers cleaving the red
Of the sunset clouds, and its shadow spread
Like a cloak before it, darkening the ranks
Of the light young trees on the river's banks,
And ending there, as the waters shone
Too bright for shadows to rest upon,
A castle stands; whose windows gleam
Like the golden flash of a noon-lit stream
Seen through the lily and water-flags' screen:
Just so shine those panes through the ivy green,
A curtain to shut out sun and air,
Which the work of years has woven there.
--But not in the lighted pomp of the west
Looks the evening its loveliest;
Enter yon turret, and round you gaze
On what the twilight east displays:
One star, pure, clear, as if it shed
The dew on each young flower's head;
And, like a beauty of southern clime,
Her veil thrown back for the first time,
Pale, timid as she feared to own
Her claim upon the midnight throne,
Shows the fair moon her crescent sign.
--Beneath, in many a serpentine,
The river wanders; chesnut trees
Spread their old boughs o'er cottages
Where the low roofs and porticoes
[...] Read more
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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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,
[...] Read more
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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The Four Seasons : Autumn
Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf,
While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain,
Comes jovial on; the Doric reed once more,
Well pleased, I tune. Whate'er the wintry frost
Nitrous prepared; the various blossom'd Spring
Put in white promise forth; and Summer-suns
Concocted strong, rush boundless now to view,
Full, perfect all, and swell my glorious theme.
Onslow! the Muse, ambitious of thy name,
To grace, inspire, and dignify her song,
Would from the public voice thy gentle ear
A while engage. Thy noble cares she knows,
The patriot virtues that distend thy thought,
Spread on thy front, and in thy bosom glow;
While listening senates hang upon thy tongue,
Devolving through the maze of eloquence
A roll of periods, sweeter than her song.
But she too pants for public virtue, she,
Though weak of power, yet strong in ardent will,
Whene'er her country rushes on her heart,
Assumes a bolder note, and fondly tries
To mix the patriot's with the poet's flame.
When the bright Virgin gives the beauteous days,
And Libra weighs in equal scales the year;
From Heaven's high cope the fierce effulgence shook
Of parting Summer, a serener blue,
With golden light enliven'd, wide invests
The happy world. Attemper'd suns arise,
Sweet-beam'd, and shedding oft through lucid clouds
A pleasing calm; while broad, and brown, below
Extensive harvests hang the heavy head.
Rich, silent, deep, they stand; for not a gale
Rolls its light billows o'er the bending plain:
A calm of plenty! till the ruffled air
Falls from its poise, and gives the breeze to blow.
Rent is the fleecy mantle of the sky;
The clouds fly different; and the sudden sun
By fits effulgent gilds the illumined field,
And black by fits the shadows sweep along.
A gaily chequer'd heart-expanding view,
Far as the circling eye can shoot around,
Unbounded tossing in a flood of corn.
These are thy blessings, Industry! rough power!
Whom labour still attends, and sweat, and pain;
Yet the kind source of every gentle art,
And all the soft civility of life:
Raiser of human kind! by Nature cast,
Naked, and helpless, out amid the woods
And wilds, to rude inclement elements;
With various seeds of art deep in the mind
[...] Read more
poem by James Thomson
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May-Day
Daughter of Heaven and Earth, coy Spring,
With sudden passion languishing,
Maketh all things softly smile,
Painteth pictures mile on mile,
Holds a cup with cowslip-wreaths,
Whence a smokeless incense breathes.
Girls are peeling the sweet willow,
Poplar white, and Gilead-tree,
And troops of boys
Shouting with whoop and hilloa,
And hip, hip three times three.
The air is full of whistlings bland;
What was that I heard
Out of the hazy land?
Harp of the wind, or song of bird,
Or clapping of shepherd's hands,
Or vagrant booming of the air,
Voice of a meteor lost in day?
Such tidings of the starry sphere
Can this elastic air convey.
Or haply 't was the cannonade
Of the pent and darkened lake,
Cooled by the pendent mountain's shade,
Whose deeps, till beams of noonday break,
Afflicted moan, and latest hold
Even unto May the iceberg cold.
Was it a squirrel's pettish bark,
Or clarionet of jay? or hark,
Where yon wedged line the Nestor leads,
Steering north with raucous cry
Through tracts and provinces of sky,
Every night alighting down
In new landscapes of romance,
Where darkling feed the clamorous clans
By lonely lakes to men unknown.
Come the tumult whence it will,
Voice of sport, or rush of wings,
It is a sound, it is a token
That the marble sleep is broken,
And a change has passed on things.
Beneath the calm, within the light,
A hid unruly appetite
Of swifter life, a surer hope,
Strains every sense to larger scope,
Impatient to anticipate
The halting steps of aged Fate.
Slow grows the palm, too slow the pearl:
When Nature falters, fain would zeal
Grasp the felloes of her wheel,
[...] Read more
poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson
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