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The Lady Of La Garaye - Prologue

RUINS! A charm is in the word:
It makes us smile, it makes us sigh,
'Tis like the note of some spring bird
Recalling other Springs gone by,
And other wood-notes which we heard
With some sweet face in some green lane,
And never can so hear again!
Ruins! They were not desolate
To us,--the ruins we remember:
Early we came and lingered late,

Through bright July, or rich September;
With young companions wild with glee,
We feasted 'neath some spreading tree--
And looked into their laughing eyes,
And mocked the echo for replies.
Oh! eyes--and smiles--and days of yore,
Can nothing your delight restore?
Return!
Return? In vain we listen;

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poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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In the ruins of your game

Im stuck in the ruins of your game.
I remember everthing clear as day.
You told me it would be a fun game.
Fun for you mabey.
It was sheer hell for me.

In the ruins of what you did.
I'm left in an everlasting pain.
It was left within the wake of what you did.
Im left within ruins.

Im in a shell of my self.
Im angry really bloody angry.
It all knaws away at me.
Eating its way through me.

Am I a bad person?
Was it my fault?
Is the unaswered questions.

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poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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My City Of Ruins

Theres a blood red circle
On the cold dark ground
And the rain is falling down
The church doors blown open
I can hear the organs song
But the congregations gone
My city of ruins
My city of ruins
Now the sweet veils of mercy
Drift through the evening trees
Young men on the corner
Like scattered leaves
The boarded up windows
The hustlers and thieves
While my brothers down on his knees
My city of ruins
My city of ruins
Come on rise up!
Come on rise up!
Now theres tears on the pillow

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song performed by Bruce Springsteen
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The Tiber River

The traffic ran one way
Down the old main drag
As I stood on the bridge of the Tiber River
The traffic ran one way
Down the old main drag
And I gazed at the ruins all scattered ‘round
And there were boards on the windows
Of the musty old houses
And they were ruins, all scattered ‘round

The wind was a-blowing
It was late September
As I stood on the bridge of the Tiber River
The window was a-howling
It was late September
And I gazed at the leaves on the soft, dirty ground
And I cursed on each one
That jumped down off each tree
There were ruins all scattered ‘round

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poem by Patrick O'Reilly
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Saint Monica

AMONG deep woods is the dismantled scite
Of an old Abbey, where the chaunted rite,
By twice ten brethren of the monkish cowl,
Was duly sung; and requiems for the soul
Of the first founder: For the lordly chief,
Who flourish'd paramount of many a fief,
Left here a stipend yearly paid, that they,
The pious monks, for his repose might say
Mass and orisons to Saint Monica.

Beneath the falling archway overgrown
With briars, a bench remains, a single stone,
Where sat the indigent, to wait the dole
Given at the buttery; that the baron's soul
The poor might intercede for; there would rest,
Known by his hat of straw with cockles drest,
And staff and humble weed of watchet gray,
The wandering pilgrim; who came there to pray
The intercession of Saint Monica.
Stern Reformation and the lapse of years

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poem by Charlotte Smith
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Race Among The Ruins

You think you had the last laugh
Now you know this cant be true
Even though the sun shines down upon you now
Sometimes you must feel blue
You make the best of each new day
You try not to be sad
Even though the sky falls down upon you
Call it midnight feelin bad
When you wake up to the promise
Of your dream world comin true
With one less friend to call on
Was it someone that I knew
Away you will go sailin
In a race among the ruins
If you plan to face tomorrow
Do it soon
The road to love is littered
By the bones of other ones
Who by the magic of the moment
Were mysteriously undone

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song performed by Gordon Lightfoot
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Ruins of Rome, by Bellay

1

Ye heavenly spirits, whose ashy cinders lie
Under deep ruins, with huge walls opprest,
But not your praise, the which shall never die
Through your fair verses, ne in ashes rest;
If so be shrilling voice of wight alive
May reach from hence to depth of darkest hell,
Then let those deep Abysses open rive,
That ye may understand my shreiking yell.
Thrice having seen under the heavens' vail
Your tomb's devoted compass over all,
Thrice unto you with loud voice I appeal,
And for your antique fury here do call,
The whiles that I with sacred horror sing,
Your glory, fairest of all earthly thing.

2

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poem by Edmund Spenser
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Thespis: Act II

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

GODS

Jupiter, Aged Diety
Apollo, Aged Diety
Mars, Aged Diety
Diana, Aged Diety
Mercury

THESPIANS

Thespis
Sillimon
TimidonTipseion
Preposteros
Stupidas
Sparkeio n
Nicemis
Pretteia

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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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The sigh of History rises over ruins, not over landscapes, and in the Antilles there are few ruins to sigh over, apart from the ruins of sugar estates and abandoned forts.

quote by Derek Walcott
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4. Ruined

The old roman ruins
Turned pillars to dust
The weather being fierce
Where the irons now rust

Huge hand carved blocks
Lying roughly askew
With masons initials
Still showing from new

Like a giants been shopping
With a huge stack of tins
He took from the bottom
Where the tumble begins

The old roman ruins
What a sight to be seen
They will all turn to dust
Where the ruins have been

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poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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