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Edith: A Tale Of The Woods

Du Heilige! rufe dein Kind zur?ch habe genossen das irdische Gl?ch habe gelebt und geliebet. ~
Wallenstein

The woods? oh! solemn are the boundless woods
Of the great Western World, when day declines,
And louder sounds the roll of distant floods,
More deep the rustling of the ancient pines;
When dimness gathers on the stilly air,
And mystery seems o'er every leaf to brood,
Awful it is for human heart to bear
The might and burden of the solitude!

Yet, in that hour, midst those green wastes, there sate
One young and fair,?and oh! how desolate!
But undismay'd; while sank the crimson light,
And the high cedars darken'd with the night,
Alone she sate; tho' many lay around,
They, pale and silent on the bloody ground,
Were sever'd from her need and from her wo,
Far as Death severs Life. O'er that wild spot

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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Needed Breeze

Tenths of thousands may have eyes but cannot see, even from a closer perspective. Many a people may have ears but cannot hear. Some may have noses but cannot smell, hands but cannot feel. Hundreds may have legs but cannot walk a road. Some take a stroll in life because they are inneed of the needed breeze. A breeze which supplies the needed acumen for rapid transformation. A breeze which expects the unexpected. A breeze which rises as much as it falls. A breeze which thinks of the unthinkable. A breeze which turns misfits into assets, fictions into facts and clichés into indelible says. - Are you inneed of the needed breeze? Many may whisper 'yes' but it takes 'courage' to receive the breeze. Rise-Up...

poem by Prince Kenny Osei
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Mountaineer-Song

BLOW, mountain-breeze! all wild, like thee,
Unfetter'd as thy wing, I rove;
With airy step and spirit free,
From snowy cliff, to shadowy grove!
And teach lone echoes to prolong,
From Caves remote, my sprightly song,
Blow, mountain-breeze!

No sigh for pomp or state I breathe,
For me, the sun-beam smiles in gold!
I envy not the victor's wreath,
For me the Alpine flow'rs unfold!
Gay, simple, free, I rove along,
And wood and hill resound my song,
Blow, mountain-breeze!
When morning wakes, with humid eye,
And cheek that kindling, bright'ning, glows;
When the soft blushes of the sky,
With roseate lustre tinge the snows;
I lead my flocks, I leave my home,

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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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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

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poem by William Lisle Bowles
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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

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poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto II.

I.
Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven!-but thou, alas!
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire-
Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was,
And is, despite of war and wasting fire,
And years, that bade thy worship to expire:
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow,
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire
Of men who never felt the sacred glow
That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts bestow.

II.
Ancient of days! august Athena! where,
Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul?
Gone-glimmering through the dream of things that were:
First in the race that led to Glory's goal,
They won, and pass'd away-is this the whole?
A school-boy's tale, the wonder of an hour!
The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower,

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poem by Byron
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Canto the Second

I.

Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven! - but thou, alas,
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire -
Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was,
And is, despite of war and wasting fire,
And years, that bade thy worship to expire:
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow,
Is the drear sceptre and dominion dire
Of men who never felt the sacred glow
That thoughts of thee and thine on polished breasts bestow.

II.

Ancient of days! august Athena! where,
Where are thy men of might, thy grand in soul?
Gone - glimmering through the dream of things that were:
First in the race that led to Glory’s goal,
They won, and passed away - is this the whole?
A schoolboy’s tale, the wonder of an hour!

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poem by Byron from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1818)
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Unsaid Breeze

unsaid body clean-that's the life performance!
unsaid breeze gleans but difficult to be felt

unsaid body clean
unsaid breeze gleans but difficult to be felt

unsaid body clean
unsaid breeze gleans but difficult to be felt

unsaid body clean
unsaid breeze gleans but difficult to be felt

unsaid body clean
unsaid breeze gleans but difficult to be felt

the way reality

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poem by Nyein Way
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Through A Transparent Tear...

a night of drumming rain
woke up into an unusually
fresh winter morning
of drizzle and tickling breeze
laced by lazy chillness
the languid nerves of the night
looked for some stirring to
help them out of a tempting bed...

a breeze brushing past the sea
a breeze traversing across
the imposing dolphin's nose
a breeze caressing the leaves
buds and flowers even in earthen
pots laden heavy absorbing
the live long passion of the clouds
a breeze filling all that it touched
on the little bit of earth around me
a breeze pervading my little sky
caused me come alive...

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poem by Indira Babbellapati
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The Bay Of Seven Islands

FROM the green Amesbury hill which bears the name
Of that half mythic ancestor of mine
Who trod its slopes two hundred years ago,
Down the long valley of the Merrimac,
Midway between me and the river's mouth,
I see thy home, set like an eagle's nest
Among Deer Island's immemorial pines,
Crowning the crag on which the sunset breaks
Its last red arrow. Many a tale and song,
Which thou bast told or sung, I call to mind,
Softening with silvery mist the woods and hills,
The out-thrust headlands and inreaching bays
Of our northeastern coast-line, trending where
The Gulf, midsummer, feels the chill blockade
Of icebergs stranded at its northern gate.

To thee the echoes of the Island Sound
Answer not vainly, nor in vain the moan
Of the South Breaker prophesying storm.
And thou hast listened, like myself, to men

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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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