You are browsing sample data. Buy download of full dataset or subscribe to API access with one of our member plans.
poem.id | poem.ts | poem.title | poem.content | poem.author |
---|---|---|---|---|
201 | 2018-02-27 03:47:17 | I Saw From The Beach poem | I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining, A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on; I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining, The bark was still there, but the waters were gone. And such is the fate of our life's early promise, So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known; Each wave that we danced on at morning ebbs from us, And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone. Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning When passion first waked a new life through his frame, And his soul, like the wood that grows precious in burning, Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame. |
Thomas Moore |
202 | 2018-02-27 03:47:19 | The Beach poem | Louder than gulls the little children scream Whom fathers haul into the jovial foam; But others fearlessly rush in, breast high, Laughing the salty water from their mouthes- Heroes of the nursery. The horny boatman, who has seen whales And flying fishes, who has sailed as far As Demerara and the Ivory Coast, Will warn them, when they crowd to hear his tales, That every ocean smells of tar. |
Robert Graves |
203 | 2018-02-27 03:47:22 | The Beach poem | Squat, unshaven, full of gas,Joseph Samuels, former clerkin four large cities, out of work,waits in the darkened underpass.In sanctuary, out of reach,he stares at the fading light outside:the rain beginning: hears the tidethat drums along the empty beach.When drops first fell at six o'clock,the bathers left. The last car's gone.Sun's final rays reflect uponthe streaking rain, the rambling dock.He takes an object from his coatand holds it tightly in his hand(eyes on the stretch of endless sand) .And then, in darkness, cuts his throat. |
Weldon Kees |
204 | 2018-02-27 03:47:25 | Show It At The Beach poem | Oh they won't let us show it at the beach no they won't let us show it at the beachThey think we're gonna grab it if it gets within our reachAnd they won't let us show it at the beachBut you can show it in your parlor to most anyone you chooseYou can show it at a party with your second shot of boozeYou can show it on the corner wearin' overcoat and shoesBut they won't let us show it at the beachNo they won't let us show it at the beach friendsAh they won't us show it at the beachOh they're sure we're gonna grab it if it gets within our reachSo they won't let us show it at the beachBut you can show it in the movies on the cineramic screenYou can show it in the most sophisticated magazineYou can show it while you're bouncing on the high school trampolineBut they won't let us show it at the beachBut if you've got a gun it's legal to display it on your hipYou can show your butcher knives to any interested kidBut if it's made for lovin' then you'd better keep it hidAnd they won't let us show it at the beach |
Shel Silverstein |
205 | 2018-02-27 03:47:29 | With Kit, Age 7, At The Beach poem | We would climb the highest dune,from there to gaze and come down:the ocean was performing; we contributed our climb.Waves leapfrogged and camestraight out of the storm.What should our gaze mean?Kit waited for me to decide.Standing on such a hill,what would you tell your child?That was an absolute vista.Those waves raced far, and cold.'How far could you swim, Daddy,in such a storm?''As far as was needed,' I said, and as I talked, I swam. |
William Stafford |
206 | 2018-02-27 03:47:32 | Beach Burial poem | Softly and humbly to the Gulf of Arabs The convoys of dead sailors come; At night they sway and wander in the waters far under, But morning rolls them in the foam. Between the sob and clubbing of the gunfire Someone, it seems, has time for this, To pluck them from the shallows and bury them in burrows And tread the sand upon their nakedness; And each cross, the driven stake of tidewood, Bears the last signature of men, Written with such perplexity, with such bewildered pity, The words choke as they begin - 'Unknown seaman' - the ghostly pencil Wavers and fades, the purple drips, The breath of wet season has washed their inscriptions As blue as drowned men's lips, Dead seamen, gone in search of the same landfall, Whether as enemies they fought, Or fought with us, or neither; the sand joins them together, Enlisted on the other front._______________________________________ ______German TranslationStrandbegräbnisErgeben und sanft zum Golf der AraberKommen die Konvois der toten Matrosen;Nachts irren sie schwankend im Wasser tief unten,Doch der Morgen läßt sie im Schaum rollen.Zwischen dem Schluchzen und Knüppeln von GeschützenHat jemand, so scheint es, die Zeit gefunden,Sie an seichten Stellen aufzusammeln und in Reihen zu begrabenUnd den Sand über ihrer Nacktheit festzutreten;Und jedes Kreuz, ein getriebener Pfahl aus Treibholz,Trägt die letzte Unterschrift eines Mannes,Geschrieben mit solcher Bestürzung, mit solch verwirrtem Mitleid,Die Worte ersticken, sobald sie beginnen -“Unbekannter Seemann“ - der gespenstische StiftZittert und verblaßt, das Purpur tropft,Der Atem der nassen Jahreszeit hat jede InschriftBlau wie die Lippen der Ertrunkenen gefärbt,Tote Seemänner, fort, denselben Landfall zu suchen,Wo sie sich als Feinde bekämpft,Oder mit uns kämpften, oder keines davon, im Sand jetzt zusammen,Angeworben an der anderen Front. |
Kenneth Slessor |
207 | 2018-02-27 03:47:38 | On The Beach poem | At dawn, bare footed, viewing as far as eyes can reach, the water's edge advances and recedes along the beach. Before me I see a carpet of half-buried shells of sea-creatures, tide washed and rippled in sodden sand along the beach. I move, exploring, sodden sand oozing between my toes, beyond me the wavelets breaking on the sand along the beach. Behind me, my wandering trail is blurred and indistinct, as the water's edge advances and recedes along the beach. At mid-day, on the soft dry sand behind the water's edge, undressed worshippers lie in the sun that beats down along the beach. At night, the moon's reflection at the water's edge resembles sea serpents playing in the wavelets along the beach. |
Michael Williams |
208 | 2018-02-27 03:47:44 | **a Beach, Lake, And Owl poem | Sun soaked revelationson a patio deck.I had long forgottenthe simple joysOf returning to origin.In its bosom, the well worn comfortOf familiarity, combined with the clear remembrance Of lake breeze air.Every milestone, And accomplishment, All seen by the unending tideOf water in motion.From the eyes of my window: the first breath of my brother and the last sight of my cousin.The first taste of a woman and my last meeting with her. All trials, Tribulations, And friendshipsHave come, goneand began againhere. Lonely winter nights, The ferocity of the wind off the beachalmost too much to bear.Nowhere to go, Except the solace of a guitar, You taught yourself well back then.My first car, Driving around in circles, a “summer town” deserted in the winter, And a fatherEager to pass this rite to his son.Later, Cracks in a marriage, like holes in a wall, and a lonely teenager hoping for the best.Ultimately, reconciliation.My first taste of addiction.Parents out of town, I wanted to be the “cool kid”.A party remembered, The stench of cigarettes, NeverAgain Forgotten. All within these walls.Outside, Clear hot air.I lay backAnd gaze deeply Into the trunk, of the tree, I have seen allMy life. My great aunt used to tell methat on the branches, Of this particular treeSits a wise old owl.He will watch over youDuring this life.To a childAn owl shaped branch, Can give breath quite easily.Yet I never truly understood Her message.NowThat branch is long since gone, As is she.And at times when I need her wisdomMostI remember the owl. Today it is clear to me.Just as the rootsOf a tree anchormighty oak, My homeAnchors me.I lay backIn my chair. Feet up, exhalation.I am home, Rooted once again. Copyright (c) David DeSantis |
David DeSantis |
209 | 2018-02-27 03:47:49 | Beach poem | Fine, warm sand under the skin; breeze playing with the long hair; seagull`s yells and distant babel; she feels invisible - stretched on the overcrowded beach; innocent, bare-back Eve from the holy Bible. | ONElia AVElar |
210 | 2018-02-27 03:47:51 | The Haunted Beach poem | Upon a lonely desart BeachWhere the white foam was scatter'd,A little shed uprear'd its headThough lofty Barks were shatter'd.The Sea-weeds gath'ring near the door,A sombre path display'd; And, all around, the deaf'ning roar,Re-echo'd on the chalky shore,By the green billows made.Above, a jutting cliff was seenWhere Sea Birds hover'd, craving; And all around, the craggs were boundWith weeds- for ever waving.And here and there, a cavern wideIts shad'wy jaws display'd; And near the sands, at ebb of tide,A shiver'd mast was seen to rideWhere the green billows stray'd.And often, while the moaning windStole o'er the Summer Ocean; The moonlight scene, was all serene,The waters scarce in motion:Then, while the smoothly slanting sandThe tall cliff wrapp'd in shade,The Fisherman beheld a bandOf Spectres, gliding hand in hand- Where the green billows play'd.And pale their faces were, as snow,And sullenly they wander'd:And to the skies with hollow eyesThey look'd as though they ponder'd.And sometimes, from their hammock shroud,They dismal howlings made,And while the blast blew strong and loudThe clear moon mark'd the ghastly croud,Where the green billows play'd! And then, above the haunted hutThe Curlews screaming hover'd; And the low door with furious roarThe frothy breakers cover'd.For, in the Fisherman's lone shedA MURDER'D MAN was laid,With ten wide gashes in his headAnd deep was made his sandy bedWhere the green billows play'd.A Shipwreck'd Mariner was he,Doom'd from his home to sever; Who swore to be thro' wind and seaFirm and undaunted ever! And when the wave resistless roll'd,About his arm he madeA packet rich of Spanish gold,And, like a British sailor, bold,Plung'd, where the billows play'd! The Spectre band, his messmates braveSunk in the yawning ocean,While to the mast he lash'd him fastAnd brav'd the storm's commotion.The winter moon, upon the sandA silv'ry carpet made,And mark'd the Sailor reach the land,And mark'd his murd'rer wash his handWhere the green billows play'd.And since that hour the FishermanHas toil'd and toil'd in vain! For all the night, the moony lightGleams on the specter'd main! And when the skies are veil'd in gloom,The Murd'rer's liquid wayBounds o'er the deeply yawning tomb,And flashing fires the sands illume,Where the green billows play! Full thirty years his task has been,Day after day more weary; For Heav'n design'd, his guilty mindShould dwell on prospects dreary.Bound by a strong and mystic chain,He has not pow'r to stray; But, destin'd mis'ry to sustain,He wastes, in Solitude and Pain- A loathsome life away. |
Mary Darby Robinson |
211 | 2018-02-27 03:47:56 | Fragments From The Beach poem | (Nonasyllabics) In retrospect the tragic natureof sea is a taste wept too daily,too depleted by freedom's rupture;the eyes have other secrets to seeand deeper use for the detrituswithin us: the bright effluviumof ego dries up, mired as it isin wealth, that remedial medium.Blame it on fate, on beach memories--pebble put in the pocket or shellfragments; any memento carriesus as much as we it. Time capsulecontains every evening's interval.The ocean observes its own puddle. |
Bill Knott |
212 | 2018-02-27 03:47:58 | For Johnny Pole On The Forgotten Beach poem | In his tenth July some instincttaught him to arm the waiting wave,a giant where its mouth hung open.He rode on the lip that buoyed him thereand buckled him under. The beach was strungwith children paddling their ages in,under the glare od noon chippingits light out. He stood up, anonymousand straight among them, betweentheir sand pails and nursery crafts.The breakers cartwheeled in and overto puddle their toes and test their perfectskin. He was my brother, my smallJohnny brother, almost ten. We floppeddown upon a towel to grind the sandunder us and watched the Atlantic seamove fire, like night sparklers;and lost our weight in the festivalseason. He dreamed, he said, to bea man designed like a balanced wave…how someday he would wait, giantand straight.Johnny, your dream moves summersinside my mind.He was tall and twenty that July,but there was no balance to help;only the shells came straight and even.This was the first beach of assault;the odor of death hung in the airlike rotting potatoes, the junkyardof landing craft waited open and rusting.The bodies were strung out as if they werestill reaching for each other, where they layto blacken, to burst through their perfectskin. And Johnny Pole was one of them.He gave in like a small wave, a suddenhole in his belly and the years all gonewhere the Pacific noon chipped its light out.Like a bean bag, outflung, head looseand anonymous, he lay. Did the sea move firefor its battle season? Does he lie thereforever, where his rifle waits, giantand straight?…I think you die againand live again,Johnny, each summer that moves insidemy mind. |
Anne Sexton |
213 | 2018-02-27 03:48:05 | Angie's Beach (For Ask) poem | The ocean's wavesAre my razor, Crashing their creamOnto the stubbleOf the shoreAnd slicing awayThe whiskers of sand.The sea breezeIs my hair dryer, Twisting and turningTendrils of soft hairAbout my faceUntil every traceOf dampness is gone.The blazing sunIs my heat lamp, Toasting my bodyUntil it isGolden brownAnd wet with the jellyOf my sweat.The raucous criesOf the free flying, Cartwheeling seagullsAre my radio music, My Beachboys, And my wild beach danceIs a shimmy to the beat Of the crashing wavesAt my feet.Moonrise and ebbtideAre my lullabye, Singing me Quietly to sleep, Lulling me, sweetly, To sleep in the night, And sunrise Is my wake-up call.So, I live on the beach, Living my Jimmy Buffett life, Carefree beachcomber that I am, Living off driftwood finds, And sea shell songs, And Pina Coladas.Scarlett TreatApril 24,2008 |
Scarlett Treat |
214 | 2018-02-27 03:48:08 | Kallundborg Church ( From The Tent On Th.. poem | "Tie stille, barn min!Imorgen kommer Fin,Fa'er din, Og gi'er dich Esbern Snares öine og hjerte at lege med!"Zealand Rhyme."BUILD at Kallundborg by the seaA church as stately as church may be,And there shalt thou wed my daughter fair,"Said the Lord of Nesvek to Esbern Snare.And the Baron laughed. But Esbern said,"Though I lose my soul, I will Helva wed!"And off he strode, in his pride of will,To the Troll who dwelt in Ulshoi hill."Build, O Troll, a church for meAt Kallundborg by the mighty sea;Build it stately, and build it fair,Build it quickly," said Esbern Snare.But the sly Dwarf said, "No work is wroughtBy Trolls of the Hills, O man, for naught.What wilt thou give for thy church so fair?""Set thy own price," quoth Esbern Snare."When Kallundborg church is builded well,Thou must the name of its builder tell,Or thy heart and thy eyes must be my boon.""Build," said Esbern, "and build it soon."By night and by day the Troll wrought on;He hewed the timbers, he piled the stone;But day by day, as the walls rose fair,Darker and sadder grew Esbern Snare.He listened by night, he watched by day,He sought and thought, but he dared not pray;In vain he called on the Elle-maids shy,And the Neck and the Nis gave no reply.Of his evil bargain far and wideA rumor ran through the country-side;And Helva of Nesvek, young and fair,Prayed for the soul of Esbern Snare.And now the church was wellnigh done;One pillar it lacked, and one alone;And the grim Troll muttered, "Fool thou art!To-morrow gives me thy eyes and heart!"By Kallundborg in black despair,Through wood and meadow, walked Esbern Snare,Till, worn and weary, the strong man sankUnder the birches on Ulshoi bank.At his last day's work he heard the TrollHammer and delve in the quarry's hole;Before him the church stood large and fair:"I have builded my tomb," said Esbern Snare.And he closed his eyes the sight to hide,When he heard a light step at his side:"O Esbern Snare! a sweet voice said,"Would I might die now in thy stead!"With a grasp by love and by fear made strong,He held her fast, and he held her long;With the beating heart of a bird afeard,She hid her face in his flame-red beard."O love!" he cried, "let me look to-dayIn thine eyes ere mine are plucked away;Let me hold thee close, let me feel thy heartEre mine by the Troll is torn apart!"I sinned, O Helva, for love of thee!Pray that the Lord Christ pardon me!"But fast as she prayed, and faster still,Hammered the Troll in Ulshoi hill.He knew, as he wrought, that a loving heartWas somehow baffling his evil art;For more than spell of Elf or TrollIs a maiden's prayer for her lover's soul.And Esbern listened, and caught the soundOf a Troll-wife singing underground:"To-morrow comes Fine, father thine:Lie still and hush thee, baby mine!"Lie still, my darling! next sunriseThou'lt play with Esbern Snare's heart and eyes!""Ho! ho!" quoth Esbern, "is that your game?Thanks to the Troll-wife, I know his name!"The Troll he heard him, and hurried onTo Kallundborg church with the lacking stone."Too late, Gaffer Fine!" cried Esbern Snare;And Troll and pillar vanished in air!That night the harvesters heard the soundOf a woman sobbing underground,And the voice of the Hill-Troll loud with blameOf the careless singer who told his name.Of the Troll of the Church they sing the runeBy the Northern Sea in the harvest moon;And the fishers of Zealand hear him stillScolding his wife in Ulshoi hill.And seaward over its groves of birchStill looks the tower of Kallundborg churchWhere, first at its altar, a wedded pair,Stood Helva of Nesvek and Esbern Snare! |
John Greenleaf Whittier |
215 | 2018-02-27 03:48:11 | I Am The Beach... poem | As we walked along the beach, crashing waves thundered in our ears and a light, salted mist, dampened our lips. The sun began to set and the voice of the beach, traveled across the ocean waves. 'I am the beach, and here you shall find peace. I am the beach, here you shall find love. In this domain, my beach, the answers you search for, could very well be found here. For at this beach, there is much, that has been revealed. The sparkled, white grains of sand, that blanket this beach, has been a bed of comfort, to many. Pause, as you come upon this beach, and listen to the symphony of waves and the chorus of birds, singing their song, as they glide in the wind. Feel the power of this beach, as it seems to renew your inner being. You need not question the beach and its mystical powers. For as millions before you have found, the beach... and its magical transference to one...have existed, since the beginning of time. Be not troubled, for the beach is close at hand. You need only to deliver your strife, to the tranquility of the beach and it shall be exercised from you. When you go from this beach...leave with the peace that you have found here.' © Joe Fazio |
(brief renderings) Joe Fazio |
216 | 2018-02-27 03:48:18 | Hampton Beach poem | THE SUNLIGHT glitters keen and bright,Where, miles away,Lies stretching to my dazzled sightA luminous belt, a misty light,Beyond the dark pine bluffs and wastes of sandy gray. The tremulous shadow of the Sea! Against its groundOf silvery light, rock, hill, and tree,Still as a picture, clear and free,With varying outline mark the coast for miles around. On—on—we tread with loose-flung reinOur seaward way,Through dark-green fields and blossoming grain,Where the wild brier-rose skirts the lane,And bends above our heads the flowering locust spray. Ha! like a kind hand on my browComes this fresh breeze,Cooling its dull and feverish glow,While through my being seems to flowThe breath of a new life, the healing of the seas! Now rest we, where this grassy moundHis feet hath setIn the great waters, which have boundHis granite ankles greenly roundWith long and tangled moss, and weeds with cool spray wet. Good-by to Pain and Care! I takeMine ease to-dayHere where these sunny waters break,And ripples this keen breeze, I shakeAll burdens from the heart, all weary thoughts away. I draw a freer breath, I seemLike all I see—Waves in the sun—the white-winged gleam—Of sea-birds in the slanting beam—And far-off sails which flit before the south-wind free. So when Time’s veil shall fall asunder,The soul may knowNo fearful change, nor sudden wonder,Nor sink the weight of mystery under,But with the upward rise, and with the vastness grow. And all we shrink from now may seemNo new revealing; Familiar as our childhood’s stream,Or pleasant memory of a dreamThe loved and cherished Past upon the new life stealing. Serene and mild the untried lightMay have its dawning; And, as in summer’s northern nightThe evening and the dawn unite,The sunset hues of Time blend with the soul’s new morning. I sit alone; in foam and sprayWave after waveBreaks on the rocks which, stern and gray,Shoulder the broken tide away,Or murmurs hoarse and strong through mossy cleft and cave. What heed I of the dusty landAnd noisy town? I see the mighty deep expandFrom its white line of glimmering sandTo where the blue of heaven on bluer waves shuts down! In listless quietude of mind,I yield to allThe change of cloud and wave and windAnd passive on the flood reclined,I wander with the waves, and with them rise and fall. But look, thou dreamer! —wave and shoreIn shadow lie; The night-wind warns me back once moreTo where, my native hill-tops o’er,Bends like an arch of fire the glowing sunset sky. So then, beach, bluff, and wave, farewell! I bear with meNo token stone nor glittering shell,But long and oft shall Memory tellOf this brief thoughtful hour of musing by the Sea. |
John Greenleaf Whittier |
217 | 2018-02-27 03:48:22 | Beach poem | As I walk along the deserted beachI feel the damp sand surronding my feetI feel the cool relaxing breeze creep up upon me with easeAs I look out at the restless waves my thoughts unwind like restless daysThe beach is a very quiet and calming place | shiny shine |
218 | 2018-02-27 03:48:28 | Beach (A Tanka) poem | Pebbles on the beachPierce through our heels as we walkA mild price to payFor the damage we subject It to by littering waste.18th October 20067.14 pm | asma bahrainwala |
219 | 2018-02-27 03:48:29 | Beach Chairs poem | Sitting on the beach chairswatching the setting sunholding hands and reminiscinghow it all begunSitting on the beach chairswatching the ships out on the seaholding hands and smilingtogether we're meant to beSitting on the beach chairswatching people walking pastholding hands and knowingthat our love will always lastSitting on the beach chairswatching the waves along the shoreholding hands we realizeour love is stronger than beforeSitting on the beach chairswatching the changing tideholding hands with happinessto be by each others sideSitting on the beach chairswatching the sunriseholding hands with tears of joythere are no more good-byes |
joyce ebrecht |
220 | 2018-02-27 03:48:33 | Memories Of The Beach poem | We went to the beach to get wind in our hairto stand on the sand and simply to stare.To let the surf tickle toes and dampen our clothesas we played 'run away' from the wavelets at play. We went to the beach to climb on the rocksfind cool shallow pools where we'd take of our socks, and peer in the waters to see what we might findthat the waves of the sea, had last left behind. We went to the beach to find coloured shellsthe kind that when placed to our earsmake the sound of the ocean appear, and gathered rocks that we never would findin the places we walked, for most of the time. We went to the beach and all that, we did findand the smell of the salt refreshed our tired minds.I'll never forget the laughter and soundsand the freedom to run, on that wet sandy ground. We went to the beach my family and Iand there we were one, with the ocean, the beach, and the sky. |
David Taylor |
221 | 2018-02-27 03:48:41 | Alone On A Beach poem | oh, , sadness...your circle killing me..and your memories waves flooded me..my life is a sky without lights..where is your yelling o happiness..? ? ? and in which wilderness, can i found you..? ? ? i am a star without sense...i am a candy without taste..and here alone in that beach.... | hazem al jaber |
222 | 2018-02-27 03:48:47 | On The Beach At Fontana poem | Wind whines and whines the shingle,The crazy pierstakes groan;A senile sea numbers each singleSlimesilvered stone.From whining wind and colderGrey sea I wrap him warmAnd touch his trembling fineboned shoulderAnd boyish arm.Around us fear, descendingDarkness of fear aboveAnd in my heart how deep unending Ache of love! | James Joyce |
223 | 2018-02-27 03:48:51 | (017) Kites Flying At The Beach poem | There the kites comeHead grasped in the children’s handsLooking for windWhile their tails get tickled by sandAh, there comes the windAnd the kites soar into the skyThe children let out more ropeTo see the kites go high high highThey flew hither and thitherTwisting their long necksThe passing by birdsGave them loving pecksThey swished their magnificent tailsHugging each other again and againThey danced to the beat of the windEven when started had the rainLater they stopped playingThe sea was crashing, forming foamAs a child said to the others“We’ve played enough, lets go home”. |
Risha Ahmed (12 yrs) |
224 | 2018-02-27 03:48:57 | An Afternoon At The Beach poem | I’ll go among the dead to see my friend. The place I leave is beautiful: the sea Repeats the winds’ far swell in its long sound, And, there beside it, houses solemnly Shine with the modest courage of the land, While swimmers try the verge of what they see. I cannot go, although I should pretend Some final self whose phantom eye could see Him who because he is not cannot change. And yet the thought of going makes the sea, The land, the swimmers, and myself seem strange, Almost as strange as they will someday be. |
Edgar Bowers |
225 | 2018-02-27 03:49:02 | Me, My Dog, And The Beach poem | To the beach, my dog and I run, Play catch frisbees, just for fun. Umbrella's to block the sun, Waves crash upon the sand. My dog chases gulls that try to land. Sky so blue, sand so white, My dog and I, were up at daylight. Winds are warm and blowing slight, Ocean sprays, dog strays, Sand blows, through our toes. It gets cool, the sun goes down, My dog and I, head back to town. It's time we leave the beach to rest. After all, we were just a guest. All the birds have flown away. We will come back, another day. Just me and my dog, to play. |
Karen Curcio |
226 | 2018-02-27 03:49:05 | My Garden—like The Beach poem | My Garden—like the Beach—Denotes there be—a Sea—That's Summer—Such as These—the PearlsShe fetches—such as Me | Emily Dickinson |
227 | 2018-02-27 03:49:10 | She Enjoys Long Walks On The Beach And.... poem | There are things in life that everybody wants….She believes that in order to find the perfect shellone has to comb a lot of beaches; walking for milesbarefoot in the foamy wash, with the sun by your sideand the past behind you for better or worse. She believesperfection exists as with sand and water, sun and sky; certain things like us are meant to grow old together, once having discovered one another. For it isin those moments, when the sun and sky close their eyes.that the moon will ebb the tide and the water will departfrom the sandy shore leaving behind for our discoverythat perfect shell. The one everybody wants…..2008 © TS |
Ted Sheridan |
228 | 2018-02-27 03:49:13 | Dover Beach, Revisited poem | Come praise unnecessary wars, althoughVideos and narratives must disproveTheses of conspiracy theorists, whoGovern us from their pretended loveOf Freedom, and Democracy. RhetoricTrumps reality, no facts must interfereWith their Dominion. Never dare connectBelief with fact, lest then there should appearBlack helicopters, agents unidentifiedWho confiscate your dreams, and then deridePlain evidence. Time is not on your side, You poets! Write of waves and tidesThat echo on some distant, white-cliffed shore - Rattling pebbles, gestures, winds - no more.2006 |
Will Barber |
229 | 2018-02-27 03:49:15 | * .. poem | Palilan, Jimenez, Misamis Ocidentalcirca 1996heresit on this shorewatch the silver tipsof the rumbling wavespushed by the windwho do not hold backtheir wingsand forever bidding goodbyesand forever abandoning my old bluesand are probably concerned | Rommel Mark Dominguez Marchan |
230 | 2018-02-27 03:49:18 | Beach Cleanup poem | footprints of sandpiperswere so transientthe sea a sandwiperwhere it came and went | Chuck Audette |
231 | 2018-02-27 03:49:19 | Beach Of Dreams poem | On the beach of dreams, we sit watching a never setting sun. Never wondering how long our love will last, or how much time, we have. Our dreams stretch out forever like our love my dear. Our hearts beat as one whenever you are near. Each day as the sun rises, I want to return to the beach. The beach of dreams, which both of us share.17 March 2008 | David Harris |
232 | 2018-02-27 03:49:23 | A Day At The Pink Beach poem | An umbrella being dragged at the day's end.A seagull churns its wings, avoiding sunlight, the hard flight of Icarus.Pink swimsuits blown in the wind, in search of due course.Time is needy, a bronzed babe walks by, a regularstatue of Liberty, her flesh turning to green palor as the water cools.In this empty beach dream of deepening sky, the wet Kremlin and White Houseare eroded as our childless hopes.An old woman collectsseashells-caverns of povertyto be sold to our deaf ears.The ocean roars of stolen property. |
MARINA GIPPS |
233 | 2018-02-27 03:49:28 | *** On The Beach poem | Please don't tie me up in a relation, please don't ask me silly questions, please don't take away me freedom, please don't sweet talk, i know without you I'd have to walk.Please don't buy me flowers, please don't light up like a tower, please don't make promises, please don't make my heart who misses, fake hugs and fake kisses, please get out of my life when it's all over, please don't look for me like a rover, please don't let me be your lover, please don't get emotional, i won't cry coz i am rational, please don't look like i betrayed you, who said i ever loved you? , please don't try to negotiate, please stop pretending and don't agitate, please don't take my heart away, please let the sand slip away, please don't behave like a leech, am only asking for *** on the beach. |
rinki nandy |
234 | 2018-02-27 03:49:33 | Private Beach poem | It is always the dispossessed— someone driving a huge rusted Dodge that’s burning oil, and must cost twenty-five dollars to fill. Today before seven I saw, through the morning fog, his car leave the road, turning into the field. It must be his day off, I thought, or he’s out of work and drinking, or getting stoned. Or maybe as much as anything he wanted to see where the lane through the hay goes. It goes to the bluff overlooking the lake, where we’ve cleared brush, swept the slippery oak leaves from the path, and tried to destroy the poison ivy that runs over the scrubby, sandy knolls. Sometimes in the evening I’ll hear gunshots or firecrackers. Later a car needing a new muffler backs out to the road, headlights withdrawing from the lowest branches of the pines. Next day I find beer cans, crushed; sometimes a few fish too small to bother cleaning and left on the moss to die; or the leaking latex trace of outdoor love.... Once I found the canvas sling chairs broken up and burned. Whoever laid the fire gathered stones to contain it, like a boy pursuing a merit badge, who has a dream of work, and proper reward for work. |
Jane Kenyon |
235 | 2018-02-27 03:49:37 | At The Beach poem | At The BeachYou roll down the window And even before you see itYou smell that salty, ocean scentYou already know your thereAt the beachWhere the breeze is bestWhere the sun is most powerfulMother Nature’s birthplaceAt the beachThere so much to doStarting from building sand castlesTo finding shells so odd lookingTo riding tsunami on your surfboardTo tanning yourself like bread in the toasterTo fishing with your grandpaTo snorkeling with fish To going on cruises To riding a dolphin Just so much to do The list is as big as spaceAs long as infinity At the beachAs you walk on the shoreYou see the sky red as the sun sits on the waterYou feel the sand filling the gaps between your toesYou hear the soothing sounds of the wavesAt the beachSome claim to see the most wondrous thingsLike beautiful mermaids sitting on rocksOr the mysterious Loch Ness MonsterAnd even the lost city of AtlantisAt the beachThere nothing better than the beach Where beauty was given its nameWhere Happiness cannot be expressedAt the beachBy: Khalid |
Khalid Icanttellyou |
236 | 2018-02-27 03:49:40 | The Changeling ( From The Tent On The Be.. poem | FOR the fairest maid in HamptonThey needed not to search,Who saw young Anna favorCome walking into church,--Or bringing from the meadows,At set of harvest-day,The frolic of the blackbirds,The sweetness of the hay.Now the weariest of all mothers,The saddest two years' bride,She scowls in the face of her husband,And spurns her child aside."Rake out the red coals, goodman,--For there the child shall lie,Till the black witch comes to fetch herAnd both up chimney fly."It's never my own little daughter,It's never my own," she said;"The witches have stolen my Anna,And left me an imp instead."Oh, fair and sweet was my baby,Blue eyes, and hair of gold;But this is ugly and wrinkled,Cross, and cunning, and old."I hate the touch of her fingers,I hate the feel of her skin;It's not the milk from my bosom,But my blood, that she sucks in."My face grows sharp with the torment;Look! my arms are skin and bone!Rake open the red coals, goodman,And the witch shall have her own."She'll come when she hears it crying,In the shape of an owl or bat,And she'll bring us our darling AnnaIn place of her screeching brat."Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton,Laid his hand upon her head:Thy sorrow is great, O woman!I sorrow with thee," he said."The paths to trouble are manyAnd never but one sure wayLeads out to the light beyond it:My poor wife, let us pray."Then he said to the great All-Father,"Thy daughter is weak and blind;Let her sight come back, and clothe herOnce more in her right mind."Lead her out of this evil shadow,Out of these fancies wild;Let the holy love of the motherTurn again to her child."Make her lips like the lips of MaryKissing her blessed Son;Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus,Rest on her little one."Comfort the soul of thy handmaid,Open her prison-door,And thine shall be all the gloryAnd praise forevermore."Then into the face of its motherThe baby looked up and smiled;And the cloud of her soul was lifted,And she knew her little child.A beam of the slant west sunshineMade the wan face almost fair,Lit the blue eyes' patient wonderAnd the rings of pale gold hair.She kissed it on lip and forehead,She kissed it on cheek and chinkAnd she bared her snow-white bosomTo the lips so pale and thin.Oh, fair on her bridal morningWas the maid who blushed and smiled,But fairer to Ezra DaltonLooked the mother of his child.With more than a lover's fondnessHe stooped to her worn young face,And the nursing child and the motherHe folded in one embrace."Blessed be God!" he murmured."Blessed be God!" she said;"For I see, who once was blinded,--I live, who once was dead."Now mount and ride, my goodman,As thou lovest thy own soul!Woe's me, if my wicked fanciesBe the death of Goody Cole!"His horse he saddled and bridled,And into the night rode he,Now through the great black woodland,Now by the white-beached sea.He rode through the silent clearings,He came to the ferry wide,And thrice he called to the boatmanAsleep on the other side.He set his horse to the river,He swam to Newbury town,And he called up Justice SewallIn his nightcap and his gown.And the grave and worshipful justice(Upon whose soul be peace!)Set his name to the jailer's warrantFor Goodwife Cole's release.Then through the night the hoof-beatsWent sounding like a flail;And Goody Cole at cockcrowCame forth from Ipswich jail.. |
John Greenleaf Whittier |
237 | 2018-02-27 03:49:45 | The Beach poem | I once ate a peach on the beach. | Mr. Bean |
238 | 2018-02-27 03:49:49 | A Sandy Beach In April poem | I stood on a sandy beach on an April weekend. The sun was shining bright on each wave that carried its reflection in. The sky in the west was filled with mottled clouds and on occasional breaks; the sun’s rays peaked through. An easterly breeze lifted the sand into little swirls and carried them a short while before depositing them down again, as I walked along a sandy beach in April.5 April 2008 |
David Harris |
239 | 2018-02-27 03:49:54 | Beauty And The Beach poem | there is something about the oceanthat brings out the earth-mother in meit is a place i love to go to write orto ponder life's mysteriesbeing out in the ocean withthe waves spraying over mefeels something of a baptism a cleansing of my soul's debristhe beach has a magnificent beautythat never ceases to amaze meand makes me feel one with the earthin rhythmn and harmonyi realize as i look out to seahow very small i really must bein the overall scheme of thingsi love the sea for it bringsout the spirituality in methe feeling of being totally freelike seagulls overhead andthe sand underneath my feetor the engulfing sun warming meto get down to the nitty-grittythe sea is a poet's paradise to me |
Faith Elizabeth Brigham |
240 | 2018-02-27 03:49:56 | A Time At The Beach poem | Why not long walks on the beachWhispering sweet nothings to eachWalking bare foot in the sandWalking together hand in handWatching the waves come crashing inFeeling the dampness on my skinFeeling the gentle breeze on my faceOne of god's beauties, what a wonderful placeLooking up towards all the starsOn this magic night, this will be all oursLove the ocean once in a whileForgetting your problems and making you smile! |
Donna Nimmo |
241 | 2018-02-27 03:50:02 | Nude Beach Rookie poem | a nude beachlooks like funyet my pale moonshould never see the sunbut to my pleading wifeI gave in at lastand now my lifeis a pain in the ass. | Chuck Audette |
242 | 2018-02-27 03:50:06 | The Beach Comber poem | I'd like to return to the world again,To the dutiful, work-a-day world of men, -For I'm sick of the beach-comber's lot,Of the one volcano flaming hot,With the snow round its edge and the fire in its throat,And the tropical island that seems a-floatLike a world set in space all alone in the sea . . .How I wish that a ship, it would stop for me.I'm sick of the brown girl that loves me, I'm sickOf the cocoanut groves, - you can't take me too quickFrom this place, though it's rich in all nature can give . . .For I want to return where it's harder to live,Where men struggle for life, where they work and find sweetTheir rest after toil, and the food that they eat . . .What? A ship's in the offing? . . . dear God, let me hide, -They're in need of a sailor, are waiting for the tideTo put off? . . . I will hide where the great cliff hangs sheer -Give 'em mangoes and goats, and don't tell 'em I'm here! |
Harry Kemp |
243 | 2018-02-27 03:50:09 | Dover Beach Revisited poem | As shingle slides upon the shorethis gentle summer night, we stroll, the great bear pointing to the poleas if to prove what stars are for.A far light winks once then is goneas shingle slides upon the shore; impermanence we know is lawand, hand in hand, we wander onbemused by moonlight on the seaand troubled by a distant war; as shingle slides upon the shoreI turn to you and you to meand though, above, the jet-planes roar, the universe has come to bea moon that's mirrored in the seaas shingle slides upon the shore. |
Hannah Smith |
244 | 2018-02-27 03:50:12 | A Plover On The Beach poem | I don't know if Poetry Lover(hereafter called plover, a shore bird with short tail) aspires to become a poetor is your run-of-the-millpoetaster (google it) A bird that runs and hideswhen it doesn't comprehenda simple poem like a haikuand pipes deleted wordslike someone demented come out, plover! | Michael Pruchnicki |
245 | 2018-02-27 03:50:16 | Maker Of Heaven And Earth (All Things Br.. poem | All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small, All things wise and wonderful, The Lord God made them all. Each little flower that opens, Each little bird that sings, He made their glowing colours, He made their tiny wings. The rich man in his castle, The poor man at his gate, God made them, high or lowly, And ordered their estate. The purple-headed mountain, The river running by, The sunset, and the morning, That brightens up the sky; The cold wind in the winter, The pleasant summer sun, The ripe fruits in the garden, He made them every one. The tall trees in the greenwood, The meadows where we play, The rushes by the water, We gather every day;-- He gave us eyes to see them, And lips that we might tell, How great is God Almighty, Who has made all things well. |
Cecil Frances Alexander |
246 | 2018-02-27 03:50:21 | The World Is A Beautiful Place poem | The world is a beautiful placeto be born intoif you don't mind happinessnot always beingso very much funif you don't mind a touch of hellnow and thenjust when everything is finebecause even in heaventhey don't singall the timeThe world is a beautiful placeto be born intoif you don't mind some people dyingall the timeor maybe only starvingsome of the timewhich isn't half badif it isn't youOh the world is a beautiful placeto be born intoif you don't much minda few dead mindsin the higher placesor a bomb or twonow and thenin your upturned facesor such other improprietiesas our Name Brand societyis prey towith its men of distinctionand its men of extinctionand its priestsand other patrolmenand its various segregationsand congressional investigationsand other constipationsthat our fool fleshis heir toYes the world is the best place of allfor a lot of such things as making the fun sceneand making the love sceneand making the sad sceneand singing low songs and having inspirationsand walking aroundlooking at everythingand smelling flowersand goosing statuesand even thinkingand kissing people andmaking babies and wearing pantsand waving hats anddancingand going swimming in riverson picnicsin the middle of the summerand just generally'living it up' Yesbut then right in the middle of it comes the smilingmortician |
Lawrence Ferlinghetti |
247 | 2018-02-27 03:50:24 | America The Beautiful poem | O beautiful for spacious skies, For amber waves of grain, For purple mountain majesties Above the fruited plain! America! America! God shed His grace on thee And crown thy good with brotherhood From sea to shining sea! O beautiful for pilgrim feet, Whose stern, impassioned stress A thoroughfare for freedom beat Across the wilderness! America! America! God mend thine every flaw, Confirm thy soul in self-control, Thy liberty in law! O beautiful for heroes proved In liberating strife, Who more than self their country loved, And mercy more than life! America! America! May God thy gold refine, Till all success be nobleness, And every gain divine! O beautiful for patriot dream That sees beyond the years Thine alabaster cities gleam Undimmed by human tears! America! America! God shed His grace on thee And crown thy good with brotherhood From sea to shining sea! |
Katharine Lee Bates |
248 | 2018-02-27 03:50:27 | A Beautiful Young Nymph Going To Bed poem | Corinna, Pride of Drury-Lane,For whom no Shepherd sighs in vain;Never did Covent Garden boastSo bright a batter'd, strolling Toast;No drunken Rake to pick her up,No Cellar where on Tick to sup;Returning at the Midnight Hour;Four Stories climbing to her Bow'r;Then, seated on a three-legg'd Chair,Takes off her artificial Hair: Now, picking out a Crystal Eye,She wipes it clean, and lays it by.Her Eye-Brows from a Mouse's Hide,Stuck on with Art on either Side,Pulls off with Care, and first displays 'em, Then in a Play-Book smoothly lays 'em.Now dextrously her Plumpers draws,That serve to fill her hollow Jaws.Untwists a Wire; and from her GumsA Set of Teeth completely comes.Pulls out the Rags contriv'd to propHer flabby Dugs and down they drop.Proceeding on, the lovely GoddessUnlaces next her Steel-Rib'd Bodice;Which by the Operator's Skill, Press down the Lumps, the Hollows fill,Up hoes her Hand, and off she slipsThe Bolsters that supply her Hips.With gentlest Touch, she next exploresHer Shankers, Issues, running Sores,Effects of many a sad Disaster;And then to each applies a Plaster.But must, before she goes to Bed,Rub off the Daubs of White and Red;And smooth the Furrows in her Front,With greasy Paper stuck upon't.She takes a Bolus e'er she sleeps;And then between two Blankets creeps.With pains of love tormented lies;Or if she chance to close her Eyes,Of Bridewell and the Compter dreams,And feels the Lash, and faintly screams;Or, by a faithless Bully drawn,At some Hedge-Tavern lies in Pawn;Or to Jamaica seems transported,Alone, and by no Planter courted;Or, near Fleet-Ditch's oozy Brinks,Surrounded with a Hundred Stinks,Belated, seems on watch to lie,And snap some Cull passing by;Or, struck with Fear, her Fancy runsOn Watchmen, Constables and Duns,From whom she meets with frequent Rubs;But, never from Religious Clubs;Whose Favour she is sure to find,Because she pays them all in Kind.CORINNA wakes. A dreadful Sight!Behold the Ruins of the Night!A wicked Rat her Plaster stole,Half eat, and dragged it to his Hole.The Crystal Eye, alas, was miss'd;And Puss had on her Plumpers piss'd.A Pigeon pick'd her Issue-Peas;And Shock her Tresses fill'd with Fleas.The Nymph, tho' in this mangled Plight,Must ev'ry Morn her Limbs unite.But how shall I describe her ArtsTo recollect the scatter'd Parts?Or show the Anguish, Toil, and Pain,Of gath'ring up herself again? The bashful Muse will never bearIn such a Scene to interfere.Corinna in the Morning dizen'd,Who sees, will spew; who smells, be poison'd.Submitted by Andrew Mayers |
Jonathan Swift |
249 | 2018-02-27 03:50:34 | Beautiful! poem | Honesty is beautifulKindness is beautifulIntelligence is beautifulTalent is beautifulBeautiful is a romance with such abundanceBeautiful are the flowers that roam the earthBeautiful is awaking to the sound of singing birdsBeautiful is a disguisePlaying hide and seek inside and outsideBeautiful is as naked as the rising sunBeautiful is delightful and truthfulBeautiful is the golden daylight that shinesAnd the taste of sweet colored red wineBeautiful was never ever created by mistakeBeautiful is the ingredient we bake life's cakeWhen all or nothing is at stakeI am beautifulYou are beautifulWe are beautifulBeautiful is greatBeautiful is sweetBeautiful is loveBeautiful is powerCome to me Mr. & Mrs. BeautifulLet me into your little secretOf why you are so obedient and dutifulCopyright 2005 - Sylvia Chidi www.sylviachidi.comCheck out my bestseller Alien book from Amazon in September 2012. (Only Trees Live Forever) All my books are available on Amazon |
Sylvia Chidi |
250 | 2018-02-27 03:50:37 | Beautiful Women poem | WOMEN sit, or move to and fro- some old, some young; The young are beautiful- but the old are more beautiful than the young. | Walt Whitman |
251 | 2018-02-27 03:50:41 | Great, Wide, Beautiful, Wonderful World poem | Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World, With the wonderful water round you curled, And the wonderful grass upon your breast-- World, you are beautifully drest. The wonderful air is over me, And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree, It walks on the water, and whirls the mills, And talks to itself on the tops of the hills. You friendly Earth! how far do you go, With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow, With cities and gardens, and cliffs, and isles, And people upon you for thousands of miles? Ah, you are so great, and I am so small, I tremble to think of you, World, at all; And yet, when I said my prayers to-day, A whisper inside me seemed to say, "You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot: You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!" |
William Brighty Rands |
252 | 2018-02-27 03:50:48 | My Dove, My Beautiful One poem | My dove, my beautiful one, Arise, arise! The night-dew lies Upon my lips and eyes. The odorous winds are weaving A music of sighs: Arise, arise, My dove, my beautiful one! I wait by the cedar tree, My sister, my love, White breast of the dove, My breast shall be your bed. The pale dew lies Like a veil on my head. My fair one, my fair dove, Arise, arise! | James Joyce |
253 | 2018-02-27 03:50:53 | Gee, You'Re So Beautiful That It's Start.. poem | Oh, Marcia, I want your long blonde beautyto be taught in high school,so kids will learn that Godlives like music in the skinand sounds like a sunshine harpsicord.I want high school report cards to look like this: | Richard Brautigan |
254 | 2018-02-27 03:51:00 | Beautiful Old Age poem | It ought to be lovely to be oldto be full of the peace that comes of experienceand wrinkled ripe fulfilment.The wrinkled smile of completeness that follows a lifelived undaunted and unsoured with accepted liesthey would ripen like apples, and be scented like pippinsin their old age.Soothing, old people should be, like appleswhen one is tired of love.Fragrant like yellowing leaves, and dim with the softstillness and satisfaction of autumn.And a girl should say:It must be wonderful to live and grow old.Look at my mother, how rich and still she is! -And a young man should think: By Jovemy father has faced all weathers, but it's been a life! |
David Herbert Lawrence |
255 | 2018-02-27 03:51:02 | 04. Beautiful Women poem | young women, old womenin their heartdespite the yearsthe yearning to be beautifulyoung women, old womenthey look at each otherone with envythe other with fear and contempt (of the wrinkles, old age) young women, old womenthey look into each otherone for a motherthe other for a daughter | john tiong chunghoo |
256 | 2018-02-27 03:51:08 | Beautiful City poem | Beautiful cityBeautiful city, the centre and crater of European confusion,O you with your passionate shriek for the rights of an equal humanity,How often your Re-volution has proven but E-volutionRoll’d again back on itself in the tides of a civic insanity! | Alfred Lord Tennyson |
257 | 2018-02-27 03:51:11 | The Beautiful Changes poem | One wading a Fall meadow finds on all sidesThe Queen Anne's Lace lying like liliesOn water; it glides So from the walker, it turnsDry grass to a lake, as the slightest shade of youValleys my mind in fabulous blue Lucernes.The beautiful changes as a forest is changed By a chameleon's tuning his skin to it; As a mantis, arranged On a green leaf, growsInto it, makes the leaf leafier, and provesAny greenness is greener than anyone knows.Your hands hold roses always in a way that saysThey are not only yours; the beautiful changesIn such kind ways, Wishing ever to sunderThings and Thing's selves for a second finding, to lose For a moment all that it touches back to wonder. |
Richard Wilbur |
258 | 2018-02-27 03:51:16 | Sonnet 10 - Yet, Love, Mere Love, Is Bea.. poem | XYet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeedAnd worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright,Let temple burn, or flax; an equal lightLeaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed:And love is fire. And when I say at needI love thee . . . mark! . . . I love thee—in thy sightI stand transfigured, glorified aright,With conscience of the new rays that proceedOut of my face toward thine. There's nothing lowIn love, when love the lowest: meanest creaturesWho love God, God accepts while loving so.And what I feel, across the inferior featuresOf what I am, doth flash itself, and showHow that great work of Love enhances Nature's. |
Elizabeth Barrett Browning |
259 | 2018-02-27 03:51:21 | Beautiful Lofty Things poem | BEAUTIFUL lofty things: O'Leary's noble head;My father upon the Abbey stage, before him a raging crowd:'This Land of Saints,' and then as the applause died out,'Of plaster Saints'; his beautiful mischievous head thrown back.Standish O'Grady supporting himself between the tablesSpeaking to a drunken audience high nonsensical words;Augusta Gregory seated at her great ormolu table,Her eightieth winter approaching: 'Yesterday he threatened my life.I told him that nightly from six to seven I sat at this table,The blinds drawn up'; Maud Gonne at Howth station waiting a train,Pallas Athene in that straight back and arrogant head:All the Olympians; a thing never known again. |
William Butler Yeats |
260 | 2018-02-27 03:51:24 | Weary Not Of Us, For We Are Very Beautiful poem | Weary not of us, for we are very beautiful; it is out of very jealousy and proper pride that we entered the veil. On the day when we cast of the body’s veil from the soul, you will see that we are the envy of despair of man and the Polestars. Wash your face and become clean for beholding us, else remain afar, for we are beloveds of ourselves. We are not that beauty who tomorrow will become a crone; till eternity we are young and heart-comforting and fair of stature. If that veil become worn out, the beauty has not grown old; the life of the Veil is transient, and we are boundless life. When Eblis saw the veil of Adam, he refused; Adam called to him, “You are the rejected one, not I.” The rest of the angels fell down prostrate, saying as they bowed themselves, “We have encountered a beauty: “Beneath the veil is an idol who by his qualities robbed us of reason, and we, prostrate, fell.” If our reason does not know the forms of the foul old men from those of the beauties, we are apostates from love. What place is there for a beauty? For he is the Lion of God. Like a child we prattled, for we are children of the alphabet. Children are beguiled with nuts and raisins, else, how are we meet for nuts and sesame-grains? When an old woman is hidden in helmet and chainmail, she says, “I am the illustrious Rostam of the battle ranks.” By her boast all know that she is a woman; how should we make a mistake, seeing that we are in the light of Ahmad? “The believer is discriminating” - so said the Prophet; now close your mouth, for we are guided rightly without speech. Hear the rest of from Shams the Pride of Tabiz for we did not take the end of the story from that king. |
Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi |
261 | 2018-02-27 03:51:28 | Because You'Re Beautiful poem | Because you’re BeautifulThis poem’s addressedTo youBecause you’re beautifulNo matter what You doBecause you’re beautifulThe sun rises Every dayBecause you’re beautifulThe mist shrouds aDreamy dayBecause you’re beautifulA blossom blooms and holdsIts scentBecause you’re beautifulSongs sung in your heartAre meantBecause you’re beautifulReflections shineAnd glintBecause you’re beautifulPoems are writtenHeaven sentBecause you are beautifulThis is all that this Poem’s saidJust in case you may have Any doubtThis poem's heaven sentTo tell youYou are beautiful And that is what this poemIs about. |
David Taylor |
262 | 2018-02-27 03:51:32 | The Beautiful Poem poem | I go to bed in Los Angeles thinkingabout you. | Richard Brautigan |
263 | 2018-02-27 03:51:36 | Gray Is Beautiful poem | You shape my bones into your hunting coat.Rain slants like needles through the falling air.The field is vast with the old blood of leaves.Fire in the windows warms my eyes to sleep.Trees interlace the hills with gray patchwork.I feel your fingers mend my broken wings.Wind fades your name into a thread of smoke.I cry its incandescence through my dreams.We must believe that gray is beautiful, East still exists although its outlines dim.I feel the wind of dawn upon my face.Put your hand there, and you will feel it too.Previously published, Auraq, Pakistan |
Sandra Fowler |
264 | 2018-02-27 03:51:40 | A Beautiful Day With My Love...... poem | When the sun rise in the morningthen you shine like a brighten ladyWhen the moon set in the eveningthen you look like a beautiful ladyWhen I go to bed in the nightthen you twinkle like starsWhen the cool breeze touches methen I take care of your loveWhen you are under my armsthen I tell you how much I love youWhen I say my night prayersthen I thank God for giving you to meWhen I close my eyes to sleepthen you rest your head on my chestand listen to my heart beat says you are mine. |
Ravi Sathasivam |
265 | 2018-02-27 03:51:43 | Cry Beautiful poem | Tears are falling, From beautiful eyes.Tears are falling, Because of beautiful lies.Tears are falling, Because of what you said.Tears are falling, Onto a beautiful bed.Tears are falling, In a beautiful stream.Tears are falling, Because of a beautiful dream.Tears are falling, Because of your lies.Tears are falling, As beautiful dies. | Summer Sandercox |
266 | 2018-02-27 03:51:46 | On The Portrait Of Two Beautiful Young P.. poem | A Brother and SisterO I admire and sorrow! The heart’s eye grieves Discovering you, dark tramplers, tyrant years. A juice rides rich through bluebells, in vine leaves, And beauty’s dearest veriest vein is tears. Happy the father, mother of these! Too fast:Not that, but thus far, all with frailty, blest In one fair fall; but, for time’s aftercast, Creatures all heft, hope, hazard, interest. And are they thus? The fine, the fingering beamsTheir young delightful hour do feature downThat fleeted else like day-dissolvèd dreams Or ringlet-race on burling Barrow brown. She leans on him with such contentment fond As well the sister sits, would well the wife; His looks, the soul’s own letters, see beyond,Gaze on, and fall directly forth on life. But ah, bright forelock, cluster that you are Of favoured make and mind and health and youth, Where lies your landmark, seamark, or soul’s star? There’s none but truth can stead you. Christ is truth.There ’s none but good can bé good, both for you And what sways with you, maybe this sweet maid; None good but God—a warning wavèd to One once that was found wanting when Good weighed. Man lives that list, that leaning in the willNo wisdom can forecast by gauge or guess, The selfless self of self, most strange, most still, Fast furled and all foredrawn to No or Yes. Your feast of; that most in you earnest eye May but call on your banes to more carouse.Worst will the best. What worm was here, we cry, To have havoc-pocked so, see, the hung-heavenward boughs?Enough: corruption was the world’s first woe. What need I strain my heart beyond my ken? O but I bear my burning witness thoughAgainst the wild and wanton work of men.. . . . . . . |
Gerard Manley Hopkins |
267 | 2018-02-27 03:51:51 | If Only I Could Write A Beautiful Poem poem | If only I could write a beautiful love poem I would write it special and only to you If only I could write a beautiful love poem So that we will forever remain so very very true If only I could write a beautiful love poem With more than a goodness like something new If only I could write a beautiful love poem Like the everlasting stay of the sky so blue If only I could write a beautiful love poem I would pray to God If only I could write a beautiful love poem I would work very hard for the Lord If only I could write a beautiful love poem With happiness the remain all through the year f only I could write a beautiful love poem Knowing that you will be very near If only I could write a beautiful love poem One so very very true If only I could write a beautiful love poem I would write it just for you |
Douglas Carter |
268 | 2018-02-27 03:51:55 | The Beautiful Lawn Sprinkler poem | What gives it power makes it change its mindAt each extreme, and lean its rising rainDown low, first one and then the other way;In which exchange humility and prideReverse, forgive, arise, and die again,Wherefore it holds at both ends of the dayThe rainbow in its scattering grains of spray.Anonymous submission. | Howard Nemerov |
269 | 2018-02-27 03:52:01 | Beautiful Dreamer Serenade poem | 1 Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me, 2 Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;3 Sounds of the rude world heard in the day,4 Lull'd by the moonlight have all pass'd a way!5 Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,6 List while I woo thee with soft melody;7 Gone are the cares of life's busy throng, --8 Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!9 Beautiful dreamer awake unto me!10 Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea 11 Mermaids are chaunting the wild lorelie;12 Over the streamlet vapors are borne,13 Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.14 Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart, 15 E'en as the morn on the streamlet and sea;16 Then will all clouds of sorrow depart, --17 Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!18 Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me! |
Stephen C. Foster |
270 | 2018-02-27 03:52:07 | Beauty, Beautious, Beautiful poem | Beauty is not a superficial formEach has their own in essential natureAnd in the actions they performUntil the dissolution of their life To leave beauty’s impressions in our heartsYesterdays beauty never leaves or departs.Beauty is all aroundEach and every place it may be foundAs you look with open eyesUpon the forms that nature makesThen man seeks to imitateYearning to match that beauty all around.Beauty if you cannot findBeauty must be in mindBeauty is in purityBeauty of simplicityBeauty runs right through and throughBeauty in me, and them, and you.Beauty, beauteous, beautifulBeauty in heavenBeauty in fireBeauty in earthAnd finally beauty in a simple verse. |
David Taylor |
271 | 2018-02-27 03:52:13 | The Beautiful American Word, Sure poem | The beautiful American word, Sure,As I have come into a room, and touchThe lamp's button, and the light blooms with suchCertainty where the darkness loomed before,As I care for what I do not know, and careKnowing for little she might not have been,And for how little she would be unseen,The intercourse of lives miraculous and dear.Where the light is, and each thing clear,separate from all others, standing in its place,I drink the time and touch whatever's near,And hope for day when the whole world has that face:For what assures her present every year?In dark accidents the mind's sufficient grace. |
Delmore Schwartz |
272 | 2018-02-27 03:52:20 | Colorfully Beautiful poem | Pink’s pretty passion, Red’s re-revelries Blue’s babbling brook, Green’s gracefully glee Purple’s past presence, Orange's overseas Yellow’s young yearning, your Love sets me free Beautiful ranting, of rain color sill Colors a picture, as image stands still Full of all fullness, my heart’s past its fill Loving you darling, with all of my will | Paul Moosberg |
273 | 2018-02-27 03:52:25 | The Beautiful Night poem | Now I leave this cottage lowly,Where my love hath made her home,And with silent footstep slowlyThrough the darksome forest roam,Luna breaks through oaks and bushes,Zephyr hastes her steps to meet,And the waving birch-tree blushes,Scattering round her incense sweet.Grateful are the cooling breezesOf this beauteous summer night,Here is felt the charm that pleases,And that gives the soul delight.Boundless is my joy; yet, Heaven,Willingly I'd leave to theeThousand such nights, were one givenBy my maiden loved to me! |
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe |
274 | 2018-02-27 03:52:31 | A Beautiful Day poem | I walked to the cliff top to watch the sunsetthinking of you and the time that we metI watched as the sun drifted down from the skya reminding reflection of light in your eyesA myriad birds flocked from over the hillreturning to roost as the world stood stilltheir fawning and waving high up in the airbrought memories to me how you unfurl your hairThe sea seemed to amble as if in a trancewhen reaching the rocks leaping into a danceits light sparking rainbows in fine misty hazea lasting encounter of how we embraceThe sun kissed the horizon like I kiss your lipsit was saying goodnight with its light fingertipscaressing the ocean and stretching my waya beautiful end to a beautiful day. |
Charles M Moore |
275 | 2018-02-27 03:52:35 | Beautiful Blue Eyes poem | Blue eyes so full of lifeA wonder all of their ownSo beautiful and preciousOh to see those eyes smileSuch a beautiful sightHow I love to look into those eyesWhen I look into themA kind of peace comes over meBeautiful blue eyesAlways haunting me...teasing meReminding me of what I want...can't haveWhy do they haunt me soWhen will I be free of themConstantly held captive by those blue eyesBeautiful blue eyesAlways thereA reminder of what I want...can't haveSuch beautiful blue eyesBeautiful blue eyes... |
Grace Hays |
276 | 2018-02-27 03:52:42 | In A World Of Beautiful Women poem | We were both sittingIn a little non-descript barWhere the lonelinessHung heavily in the airLike cigarette smoke.In nearly drunken conversation, You said you wereSadly obsessedBy girl named EricaWho turned intoA mythical dream and disappearedLike Daphne into a laurel tree.And I feltLike we were brothersIn a world of beautiful womenWho fly awayLike untamed exotic birdsWhich men can never cage.And the bartenderTurned up the radio: “The trouble is, That you’re in love With someone else, It should be me, It should be me! ”* |
Uriah Hamilton |
277 | 2018-02-27 03:52:51 | You Are Beautiful poem | You are beautifulYour love shines right through meEvery time I hear your nameIt makes my cheeks red with shameYou are beautifulAnd I love youLike I love musicBut you much more boldlyHow about you and I go down to the park? It makes this love more mysterious and darkYou are beautifulYour red lips make my cheeks redYour flowing hair makes mine stand on endJealousy, envy, love, and lustYou cannot be more robustYou are beautifulNow I have described it as best I canI should be done talking to myself nowAnd I think I should talk to the beautiful stranger before meOr maybe the beautiful you is not man but is this-PoetryYes I believe I will go down to the parkSo it is mysterious and darkAnd write about you PoetryFor I realize that Poetry is far more beautiful than thee |
Fidelis Patronus |
278 | 2018-02-27 03:52:55 | Beautiful Me poem | They look at my dark complexion and they laugh.But that don’t bother me.For I’m beautiful.Beautiful me.I love my wide nose, and thick lips.I’m beautiful.Beautiful me.Now, my hips are wide, and I got a lot of junk in my trunk.But I’m beautiful.Beautiful me.My hair may be coarse, And my breast are not enhance.But I’m still beautiful.Beautiful me.So they may point, and laugh if they want too.They may even call me names because of mydark skin. I won’t cry because beauty is inthe eye of the beholder. And in my eyesI’m beautiful.Beautiful me. |
Lore Me34 |
279 | 2018-02-27 03:53:04 | Beautiful River poem | And he showed me a pure River of Water of Life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the Throne of God and of the Lamb." -- Rev. xxii. 1 Shall we gather at the river Where bright angel feet have trod; With its crystal tide forever Flowing by the throne of God?CHORUS. Yes, we'll gather at the river, The beautiful, the beautiful river -- Gather with the saints at the river That flows by the throne of God. On the margin of the river, Washing up its silver spray, We will walk and worship ever, All the happy, golden day. Yes, we'll gather at the river, The beautiful, the beautiful river -- Gather with the saints at the river That flows by the throne of God. On the bosom of the river, Where the Saviour-king we own, We shall meet, and sorrow never 'Neath the glory of the throne. Cho. Yes, we'll gather at the river, The beautiful, the beautiful river -- Gather with the saints at the river That flows by the throne of God. Ere we reach the shining river, Lay we every burden down; Grace our spirits will deliver, And provide a robe and crown. Cho. Yes, we'll gather at the river, The beautiful, the beautiful river -- Gather with the saints at the river That flows by the throne of God. At the smiling of the river, Rippling with the Saviour's face, Saints, whom death will never sever, Lift their songs of saving grace. Cho. Yes, we'll gather at the river, The beautiful, the beautiful river -- Gather with the saints at the river That flows by the throne of God. Soon we'll reach the shining river, Soon our pilgrimage will cease, Soon our happy hearts will quiver With the melody of peace. Cho. Yes, we'll gather at the river, The beautiful, the beautiful river -- Gather with the saints at the river That flows by the throne of God. |
Robert Wadsworth Lowry |
280 | 2018-02-27 03:53:12 | The Two Guides Of Life - The Sublime And.. poem | Two genii are there, from thy birth through weary life to guide thee;Ah, happy when, united both, they stand to aid beside thee?With gleesome play to cheer the path, the one comes blithe with beauty,And lighter, leaning on her arm, the destiny and duty.With jest and sweet discourse she goes unto the rock sublime,Where halts above the eternal sea the shuddering child of time.The other here, resolved and mute and solemn, claspeth thee,And bears thee in her giant arms across the fearful sea.Never admit the one alone!--Give not the gentle guideThy honor--nor unto the stern thy happiness confide! |
Friedrich Schiller |
281 | 2018-02-27 03:53:20 | The Beautiful Mountain Valley... poem | The mountain valley is the place of nature's giftThrough out the season it shower with beautiful natureWhen you stand in between the mountain valleyYou feel that the heaven blesses you dearlyYou feel that the greenery hug you tightly You feel that the cool breeze touches you tenderlyYou see that the water falls roll over violentlyYou see that the trees dance to the tune of wind smoothlyYou hear that the birds sing nature choir happilyYou watch that the animals walk freelyWhen the nature open its heart widelyIt gives everyone a chance to be with nature closely.Ravi Sathasivam / Sri LankaCopyright ©2004 Ravi Sathasivam |
Ravi Sathasivam |
282 | 2018-02-27 03:53:30 | The Beautiful City Of Perth poem | Beautiful Ancient City of Perth,One of the grandest on the earth,With your stately mansions and streets so clean,And situated between two Inches green,Which are most magnificent to be seen The North Inch is beautiful to behold,Where the daisies and butter-cups their petals unfold,In the warm summer time of the year,While the clear silvery Tay rolls by quite near,And such a scene will your spirits cheer. The South Inch is lovely, be it said,And a splendid spot for military parade,While along the highway there are some big trees,Where the soldiers can rest or stand at ease,Whichever way their commanders please. The surrounding woodland scenery is very grand,It cannot be surpassed in fair Scotland,Especially the elegant Palace of Scone, in history renowned,Where some of Scotland's kings were crowned. And the Fair Maid of Perth's house is worthy to be seen,Which is well worth visiting by Duke, Lord, or Queen;The Fair Maid of Perth caused the battle on the North Inch'Twixt the Clans Chattan and Kay, and neither of them did flinch,Until they were cut up inch by inch. The scenery is lovely in the month of June,When trees and flowers are in full bloom,Especially near by the Palace of Scone,Where the blackbird is heard whistling all dayWhile near by rolls on the clear silvery Tay. Of all the cities in Scotland, beautiful Perth for me,For it is the most elegant city that ever I did see,With its beautiful woodland scenery along the river Tay,Which would make the tourist's heart feel gay,While fishing for trout on a fine summer day. There, the angler, if he likes to resortFor a few day's fishing, can have excellent sport,And while he is fishing during the day,He will feel delighted with the scenery along the river Tay.And the fish he catches will drive dull care away,And his toil will be rewarded for the fatigues of the day. Beautiful city of Perth, magnificent to be seen,With your grand statues and Inches green,And your lovely maidens fair and gay,Which, in conclusion, I will venture to say,You cannot be surpassed at the present day. |
William Topaz McGonagall |
283 | 2018-02-27 03:53:36 | Everything Is Beautiful And Cool On A Fr.. poem | If you see me roaming Woodward AvenueDown by the Majestic Theater, I’ll be humming a song and digging the homeless, Taking in the delicious aroma of pizzaBaking in the storefront, Gazing at the young women and menDrinking beer at outdoor tablesAs conversations filter from the bowling alley.I’ll laugh my ass off if a fight breaks out, Everything is beautiful and cool on a Friday night, Even the paramedics and cops smileAs their sirens wail and flash, An old man takes his cane and smacks anotherAnd it is all divine hi jinks That a fun-loving God condones.This city has been in decline for some time, Dirty buildings and streets that often seemLike a lonely ghost town, But I can find just enough life around the cornerFrom the college to make it all sparkleWith the excitement of music and poetryInterwoven with the inexhaustive heartbeats of desire. |
Uriah Hamilton |
284 | 2018-02-27 03:54:13 | The Beautiful Game (Soccer) poem | I love you more than my old soccer cleats, The ones I’ll never give up.I love you more than the perfect field, The one I use to warm up.I love you more than my soccer ball, The one that’s perfect for amazing passes.I love you more than me running along those different types of grasses.I love you more than the cheering crowds, The stands made out of plaster.I love you more than that perfect kick, That I have yet to master.I love you more than my soccer cleats the ones that hold all reason.I love you more than my coach, my soccer team and my season.I love you more than winning that world cup, That we have yet to reclaim.I can’t believe I love you more than the beautiful game. |
Gab Oso |
285 | 2018-02-27 03:54:17 | Beautiful Balmerino poem | Beautiful Balmermo on the bonnie banks of Tay,It's a very bonnie spot in the months of June or May;The scenery there is charming and fascinating to see,Especially the surroundings of the old Abbey, Which is situated in the midst of trees on a rugged hill,Which visitors can view at their own free will;And the trees and shrubberies are lovely to view,Especially the trees on each side of the avenue Which leads up to the Abbey amongst the trees;And in the summer time it's frequented with bees,And also crows with their unmusical cry,Which is a great annoyance to the villagers that live near by. And there in the summer season the mavis sings,And with her charming notes the woodland rings;And the sweet-scented zephyrs is borne upon the gale,Which is most refreshing and invigorating to inhale. Then there's the stately Castle of BalmerinoSituated in the midst of trees, a magnificent show,And bordering on the banks o' the silvery Tay,Where visitors can spend a happy holiday. As they view the castle and scenery aroundIt will help to cheer their spirits I'll be bound;And if they wish to view Wormit BayThey can walk along the braes o' the silvery Tay. |
William Topaz McGonagall |
286 | 2018-02-27 03:54:20 | The Beautiful Sun poem | Beautiful Sun! with thy golden rays,To God, the wise Creator, be all praise;For thou nourisheth all the creation,Wherever there is found to be animation. Without thy heat we could not live,Then praise to God we ought to give;For thou makest the fruits and provisions to grow,To nourish all creatures on earth below. Thou makest the hearts of the old feel glad,Likewise the young child and the lad,And the face of Nature to look green and gay,And the little children to sport and play. Thou also givest light unto the Moon,Which certainly is a very great boonTo all God's creatures here below,Throughout the world where'er they go. How beautiful thou look'st on a summer morn,When thou sheddest thy effulgence among the yellow corn,Also upon lake, and river, and the mountain tops,Whilst thou leavest behind the most lovely dewdrops! How beautiful thou seem'st in the firmament above,As I gaze upon thee, my heart fills with loveTo God, the great Creator, Who has placed thee there,Who watches all His creatures with an eye of care! Thou makest the birds to sing on the tree,Also by meadow, mountain, and lea;And the lark high poised up in air,Carolling its little song with its heart free from care. Thou makest the heart of the shepherd feel gayAs he watches the little lambkins at their innocent play;While he tends them on the hillside all day,Taking care that none of them shall go astray. Thou cheerest the weary traveller while on his wayDuring the livelong summer day,As he admires the beautiful scenery while passing along,And singing to himself a stave of a song. Thou cheerest the tourist while amongst the Highland hills,As he views their beautiful sparkling rillsGlittering like diamonds by the golden rays,While the hills seem to offer up to God their praise. While the bee from flower to flower does roamTo gather honey, and carry it home;While it hums its little song in the beautiful sunshine,And seemingly to thank the Creator divine -- For the honey it hath gathered during the day,In the merry month of May,When the flowers are in full bloom,Also the sweet honeysuckle and the broom. How beautiful thy appearance while setting in the west,Whilst encircled with red and azure, 'tis then thou look'st best!Then let us all thank God for thy golden lightIn our prayers every morning and night! |
William Topaz McGonagall |
287 | 2018-02-27 03:54:25 | Beautiful Torquay poem | All ye lovers of the picturesque, awayTo beautiful Torquay and spend a holiday'Tis health for invalids for to go thereTo view the beautiful scenery and inhale the fragrant air,Especially in the winter and spring-time of the year,When the weather is not too hot, but is balmy and clear. Torquay lies in a very deep and well-sheltered spot,And at first sight by strangers it won't be forgot;'Tis said to be the mildest place in ah England,And surrounded by lofty hills most beautiful and grand. Twas here that William of Orange first touched English ground,And as he viewed the beautiful spot his heart with joy did rebound;And an obelisk marks the spot where he did stand,And which for long will be remembered throughout England. Torquay, with its pier and its diadem of white,Is a moat beautiful and very dazzling sight,With its white villas glittering on the sides of its green hills,And as the tourist gases thereon with joy his heart fills. The heights around Torquay are most beautiful to be seen,Especially when the trees and shrubberies are green,And to see the pretty houses under the cliff is a treat,And the little town enclosed where two deep valleys meet. There is also a fine bathing establishment near the pier,Where the tourist can bathe without any fear;And as the tourists there together doth stroll,I advise them to visit a deep chasm called Daddy's Hole. Then there's Bablicome, only two miles from Torquay,Which will make the stranger's heart feel gay,As he stands on the cliff four hundred feet above the sea,Looking down,'tis sure to fill his heart with ecstasy. The lodging-houses at Bablicome are magnificent to be seen,And the accommodation there would suit either king or queen,And there's some exquisite cottages embowered in the woodland,And sloping down to the sea shore, is really very grand. You do not wonder at Napoleon's exclamationAs he stood on the deck of the "Bellerophon," in a fit of admiration,When the vessel was lying to windbound,He exclaimed - "Oh, what a beautiful country!" his joy was profound. And as the tourist there in search of beautiful spots doth rove,Let them not forget to enquire for Anstey's Cove,And there they will see a beautiful beach of milky white,And the sight will fill their hearts with delight. Oh! beautiful Torquay, with your lovely scenery,And your magnificent cottages sloping down to the sea,You are the most charming spot in all England,With your picturesque bay and villas most grand. And, in conclusion, to tourists I will say,Off! off to Torquay and make no delay,For the scenery is magnificent, and salubrious the air,And 'tis good for the health to reside there. |
William Topaz McGonagall |
288 | 2018-02-27 03:54:30 | Beautiful Aberfoyle poem | The mountains and glens of Aberfoyle are beautiful to sight,Likewise the rivers and lakes are sparkling and bright;And its woods were frequented by the Lady of the Lake,And on its Lakes many a sail in her boat she did take. The scenery there will fill the tourist with joy,Because 'tis there once lived the bold Rob Roy,Who spent many happy days with his Helen there,By chasing the deer in the woods so fair. The little vale of Aberfoyle and its beautiful riverIs a sight, once seen, forget it you'll never;And romantic ranges of rock on either sideForm a magnificent background far and wide. And the numerous lochs there abound with troutWhich can be had for the taking out,Especially from the Lochs Chon and Ard,There the angler can make a catch which will his toil reward. And between the two lochs the Glasgow Water Works are near,Which convey water of Loch Katrine in copious streams clearTo the inhabitants of the Great Metropolis of the West,And for such pure water they should think themselves blest. The oak and birch woods there are beautiful to view,Also the Ochil hills which are blue in hue,Likewise the Lake of Menteith can be seen far eastward,Also Stirling Castle, which long ago the English beseiged very hard. Then away to Aberfoyle, Rob Roy's country,And gaze on the magnificent scenery.A region of rivers and mountains towering majesticallyWhich is lovely and fascinating to see. But no words can describe the beautiful scenery.Aberfoyle must be visited in order to see,So that the mind may apprehend its beauties around,Which will charm the hearts of the visitors I'll be bound. As for the clachan of aberfoyle, little remains but a hotel,Which for accomodation which will suit the traveller very well.And the bedding thereis clean and good,And good cooks there to cook the food. Then away to the mountains and lakes of bonnie Aberfoyle,Ye hard-working sons and daughters of daily toil;And traverse its heathery mountains and viewits lakes so clear,When the face of Nature's green in the spring of the year. |
William Topaz McGonagall |
289 | 2018-02-27 03:54:35 | Love’s Beautiful & Love Untainted & Love.. poem | Love's Beautiful I was scared of love - love was a slap in the face when I did something wrong and it got to mom love is a chase and breaking my favourite stuff When parents gave love they spiced it with hate when friends gave love they set conditions and rules when you love me is it duty-free - what is the dividends? You reminded me how I completely withdrew from all forms of life and lived in a book so much so that closing the book stopped me breathing and being only words on paper words in a song, music playing was existence for me... Feed me love to fill my cup with loving feelings that I can carry with me wherever I go - I didn't trust mom when I was small and since then I didn't trust menI discovered my father’s love but recently he is violent but true never lies to you Are you a dream -whatever the reality love's a beautiful phenomenon…Love Still Untainted Listening to Mozart’s Piano Concerto* on the radio – violins are the light of stars flickering, shimmering, the piano says of the birth of a beautiful love in the heart of a man; maimed in its manifestation by callous hands, its beauty never reaching the heart of the beloved one. That love is still untainted and as sweet as this lovely composition: will the love of my father for my mother endure until its revelation in the life hereinafter – enduring unto eternity…? *Concerto No.21 in CLove Unassuming For M.C.K.And then you cameand spoke about consideration and I thought: Where's warm love? and spoke about alienationand I thought: Where's the passion? and focused on doing the right thingand consistency and loyalty and quiet loveand I thought: What is that thingcalled love that is so unassuming? I thought love was all-consuming...and that after the fire had burnt outnothing would remainbut your love kept on burningwith a pure and beautiful flameand awakened such sweet love in mefilled me with such a feeling of security that left my blighted youth behindso that today I findI love you even more than beforeLove a Scorpion & Needs Of AnotherTo Love A ScorpionI used to crywhen you stung mewith your honestyand angry attacksI thought if youloved me, you wouldnot be angry with mefor being fearful and scaredThen I readpeople show their lovedifferently, there arecodes of love – when weunderstand the characterof a loved one, we’ll beable to discern the loveclothed in idiosyncrasyWhen I saw your Astrogenetic sign: Scorpio – with the stingin the tail; it is your nature to be brutally honest, to judge mercilessly, a light went on for me: a Scorpion’s love does entailmerciless attack, not for lackof love; but because of it -without love, you destroy completelywith love, you are authoritativeDifficult as it may beI love my Scorpiontogether we soaryou’re an eagle – when you’re gladTogether we crawlin the dust – when you’re sadtogether we burn up in the heat of your angerbut like the phoenixwe rise again – rebornafter your emotional storm: Now I knowyour code of loveand why you attack, I can deal with itin a new way – andmy Astrogenetic signgives me permissionto cry enough to wash all the pain away! Make Way For The Needs Of AnotherNobody said relationships were easy - we are both in love with love, though you cannot cope with the quick ebb and flow of my emotions – your feelings change slowly while mine are in flux – I keep my pose when dealing with you; not wishing to rock the boat – sometimes regretting that I can’t be me – but then, I have poetry to write it all down, deal with the sting of jealousy, manipulation and arrogance – and woe is me when I pointout these traits – so let’s keep the peace; I’m proud of the way you pursue these demons of yours - fighting relentlessly; weighing pros and cons we can make things work; please do not be so unforgiving; let’s make room for the failings of others, let’s visit the Queen of Hearts and my sister theDuchess someday; let’s start with a clean slate and make way for the needs of another... |
Margaret Alice |
290 | 2018-02-27 03:54:41 | Beautiful Monikie poem | Beautiful Monikie! with your trees and shrubberies greenAnd your beautiful walks, most charming to be seen:'Tis a beautiful place for pleasure-seekers to resort,Because there they can have innocent sport,taking a leisure walk all round about,And see the ang1ers fishing in the pand for trout. Besides, there's lovely white swans swimming on the pond,And Panmure Monument can be seen a little distance beyond;And the scenery all round is enchanting I declare,While sweet-scented fragrance fills the air. Then away, pleasure-seekers of bonnie Dundee,And have a day's outing around Monikie,And inhale the pure air, on a fine summer day,Which will help to drive dull care away;As ye gaze on the beautiful scenery there,Your spirits will feel o'erjoyed and free frozen care. Then near to the pond there's a beautiful green sward,Where excursionists can dance until fatigue does them retard;And if they feel thirsty, the Monikie water's near by,Where they can quench their thirst if very dry. Then, after that, they can have a walk at their ease,Amongst the green shrubbery and tall pine trees;And in the centre of the pand they can seeThree beautiful little islets dressed in green livery. Monikie is as bonnie a place as ye could wish to see,And about eleven or twelve miles from bonnie Dundee;It's the only place I know of to enjoy a holiday,Because there's a hall of shelter there to keep the rain away. Then there's a large park, a very suitable place,For the old and the young, if they wish to try a race;It's there they can enjoy themselves during the live-long summmer day,Near to the little purling burn, meandering on its way,And emptying itself into the pond of Monikie,Which supplies the people with water belonging to Dundee. |
William Topaz McGonagall |
291 | 2018-02-27 03:54:47 | Beautiful Crief poem | Ye lovers of the picturesque, if ye wish to drown your grief,Take my advice, and visit the ancient town of Crieff;The climate is bracing, and the walks lovely to see.Besides, ye can ramble over the district, and view the beautiful scenery. The town is admirably situated from the cold winter winds,And the visitors, during their stay there, great comfort finds,Because there is boating and fishing, and admission free,Therefore they can enjoy themselves right merrily. There is also golf courses, tennis greens, and good roads,Which will make the travelling easier to tourists with great loads,And which will make the bicyclists' hearts feel gay,Because they have everything there to make an enjoyable holiday. The principal river there is the Earn, rolling on its way,And which flows from Loch Earn, and joins the silvery TayAbove Newburgh, after a course of more than thirty miles;And as the tourist views the scene with joy he smiles. The princely domain of Drummond Castle is most beautiful to be seen,Especially when the woody landscape is blown full green,And from the entrance gate to the castle an avenue extends all the way,And to view the branches of the frees interlacing makes the heart feel gay. Drummond Castle's flowery gardens are really very grand;They cannot be surpassed in Great Britain,And in the summer-time the bee and the butterfly are there on the wing,And with the carolling of birds the gardens doth ring. And from Knock Hill on the north and west,The view from its summit is considered the best;Because the Grampians and the Ochils can be seen,While the beautiful rich fertile valley lies between. And there are many seats where the weary traveller can rest,And there is also a fountain of water, the very best,While visitors can drink of while resting there,And gaze on the magnificent scenery and inhale the pure air. Then there's Lady Mary's Walk near the Bridge of Turret,Which I hope visitors will go and see and not forget,Because near by grows a magnificent oak most lovely to see,Which is known by the name of Eppie Callum's Tree. And at each end of this walk the visitors can ascend Laggan Hill,And as they view the woods and fields with joy their heartsAnd they will find seats plenteous on this elevated bower,On which they may rest and wile away the hour. The Hydropathic is situated on an eminence most grand,And is one of the largest buildings in fair Scotland;And capable of accommodating five hundred visitors, who often call there,To recuperate their health and breathe the fragrant air. Then there's Abercairny, which is most beautiful to view,And Her Majesty the Queen visited the grounds in 1842;And the park and the trees has the aspect of a southern scene,And the lovely appearance of it gladdened the heart of our Queen. Then there's the village of Foulis, which tourists ought to see,Because the scenery there is charming and pretty;And there's a sycamore tree there that was planted 300 years ago,And I'm sure the sight thereof will please both high and low. Therefore, in conclusion, to all lovers of the beautiful I will say,If ye really wish to spend an enjoyable holiday,I would recommend Crieff for lovely scenery and pure air;Besides, the climate gives health to many visitors during their stay there. |
William Topaz McGonagall |
292 | 2018-02-27 03:54:51 | Beautiful Rose poem | Off on the prairie, where the balmy airKisses the waving corn,There lives a farmer, with a daughter fair--Fair as a summer's morn!She has a nature gentle as a dove,Pure as the mountain snows;Say! is it strange that everyone should love--Love such a girl as Rose?Beautiful Rose! lovely Rose!Pride of the prairie bower!Everybody loves her--everybody knowsShe is the fairest flower.Rose is a lady yet from early dawn,Labors her skillful hand;She is the housewife, now her mother's gone--Gone to the better land.Rose has the beauty--father has the gold--Both will be hers one day;For she is young, while he is growing old--Old people pass away.Clerks from the city, plowmen from the field,Lords from a foreign land;Each in their turn have very humbly kneeled--Kneeled for her heart and hand.But to them all she made the same reply--Kindly but firmly, "No!"And none but I can tell the reason why--Why she should treat them so. |
Henry Clay Work |
293 | 2018-02-27 03:54:58 | On A Beautiful Landscape poem | Beautiful landscape! I could look on thee For hours,--unmindful of the storm and strife, And mingled murmurs of tumultuous life. Here, all is still as fair--the stream, the tree, The wood, the sunshine on the bank: no tear No thought of time's swift wing, or closing night Which comes to steal away the long sweet light, No sighs of sad humanity are here. Here is no tint of mortal change--the day Beneath whose light the dog and peasant-boy Gambol with look, and almost bark, of joy-- Still seems, though centuries have passed, to stay. Then gaze again, that shadowed scenes may teach Lessons of peace and love, beyond all speech. |
William Lisle Bowles |
294 | 2018-02-27 03:55:00 | Beauty Xxv poem | And a poet said, 'Speak to us of Beauty.' Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide? And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech? The aggrieved and the injured say, 'Beauty is kind and gentle. Like a young mother half-shy of her own glory she walks among us.' And the passionate say, 'Nay, beauty is a thing of might and dread. Like the tempest she shakes the earth beneath us and the sky above us.' The tired and the weary say, 'beauty is of soft whisperings. She speaks in our spirit. Her voice yields to our silences like a faint light that quivers in fear of the shadow.' But the restless say, 'We have heard her shouting among the mountains, And with her cries came the sound of hoofs, and the beating of wings and the roaring of lions.' At night the watchmen of the city say, 'Beauty shall rise with the dawn from the east.' And at noontide the toilers and the wayfarers say, 'we have seen her leaning over the earth from the windows of the sunset.' In winter say the snow-bound, 'She shall come with the spring leaping upon the hills.' And in the summer heat the reapers say, 'We have seen her dancing with the autumn leaves, and we saw a drift of snow in her hair.' All these things have you said of beauty. Yet in truth you spoke not of her but of needs unsatisfied, And beauty is not a need but an ecstasy. It is not a mouth thirsting nor an empty hand stretched forth, But rather a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted. It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear, But rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears. It is not the sap within the furrowed bark, nor a wing attached to a claw, But rather a garden forever in bloom and a flock of angels for ever in flight. People of Orphalese, beauty is life when life unveils her holy face. But you are life and you are the veil. Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror. But you are eternity and you are the mirror. |
Khalil Gibran |
295 | 2018-02-27 03:55:04 | Rondel Of Merciless Beauty poem | Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly;Their beauty shakes me who was once serene;Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen. Only your word will heal the injuryTo my hurt heart, while yet the wound is clean -Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly;Their beauty shakes me who was once serene. Upon my word, I tell you faithfullyThrough life and after death you are my queen;For with my death the whole truth shall be seen.Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly;Their beauty shakes me who was once serene;Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen. |
Geoffrey Chaucer |
296 | 2018-02-27 03:55:06 | Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty) poem | Considera girl who keeps slipping off, arms limp as old carrots, into the hypnotist's trance, into a spirit worldspeaking with the gift of tongues.She is stuck in the time machine, suddenly two years old sucking her thumb, as inward as a snail, learning to talk again.She's on a voyage.She is swimming further and further back, up like a salmon, struggling into her mother's pocketbook.Little doll child, come here to Papa.Sit on my knee.I have kisses for the back of your neck.A penny for your thoughts, Princess.I will hunt them like an emerald.Come be my snookyand I will give you a root.That kind of voyage, rank as a honeysuckle.Oncea king had a christeningfor his daughter Briar Roseand because he had only twelve gold plateshe asked only twelve fairiesto the grand event.The thirteenth fairy, her fingers as long and thing as straws, her eyes burnt by cigarettes, her uterus an empty teacup, arrived with an evil gift.She made this prophecy: The princess shall prick herselfon a spinning wheel in her fifteenth yearand then fall down dead.Kaputt! The court fell silent.The king looked like Munch's ScreamFairies' prophecies, in times like those, held water.However the twelfth fairyhad a certain kind of eraserand thus she mitigated the cursechanging that deathinto a hundred-year sleep.The king ordered every spinning wheelexterminated and exorcised.Briar Rose grew to be a goddessand each night the kingbit the hem of her gownto keep her safe.He fastened the moon upwith a safety pinto give her perpetual lightHe forced every male in the courtto scour his tongue with Bab-olest they poison the air she dwelt in.Thus she dwelt in his odor.Rank as honeysuckle.On her fifteenth birthdayshe pricked her fingeron a charred spinning wheeland the clocks stopped.Yes indeed. She went to sleep.The king and queen went to sleep, the courtiers, the flies on the wall.The fire in the hearth grew stilland the roast meat stopped crackling.The trees turned into metaland the dog became china.They all lay in a trance, each a catatonicstuck in a time machine.Even the frogs were zombies.Only a bunch of briar roses grewforming a great wall of tacksaround the castle.Many princestried to get through the bramblesfor they had heard much of Briar Rosebut they had not scoured their tonguesso they were held by the thornsand thus were crucified.In due timea hundred years passedand a prince got through.The briars parted as if for Mosesand the prince found the tableau intact.He kissed Briar Roseand she woke up crying: Daddy! Daddy! Presto! She's out of prison! She married the princeand all went wellexcept for the fear -the fear of sleep.Briar Rosewas an insomniac...She could not napor lie in sleepwithout the court chemistmixing her some knock-out dropsand never in the prince's presence.If if is to come, she said, sleep must take me unawareswhile I am laughing or dancingso that I do not know that brutal placewhere I lie down with cattle prods, the hole in my cheek open.Further, I must not dreamfor when I do I see the table setand a faltering crone at my place, her eyes burnt by cigarettesas she eats betrayal like a slice of meat.I must not sleepfor while I'm asleep I'm ninetyand think I'm dying.Death rattles in my throatlike a marble.I wear tubes like earrings.I lie as still as a bar of iron.You can stick a needlethrough my kneecap and I won't flinch.I'm all shot up with Novocain.This trance girlis yours to do with.You could lay her in a grave, an awful package, and shovel dirt on her faceand she'd never call back: Hello there! But if you kissed her on the mouthher eyes would spring openand she'd call out: Daddy! Daddy! Presto! She's out of prison.There was a theft.That much I am told.I was abandoned.That much I know.I was forced backward.I was forced forward.I was passed hand to handlike a bowl of fruit.Each night I am nailed into placeand forget who I am.Daddy? That's another kind of prison.It's not the prince at all, but my fatherdrunkeningly bends over my bed, circling the abyss like a shark, my father thick upon melike some sleeping jellyfish.What voyage is this, little girl? This coming out of prison? God help -this life after death? |
Anne Sexton |
297 | 2018-02-27 03:55:11 | The Beauty Of Death Xiv poem | Part One - The CallingLet me sleep, for my soul is intoxicated with love and Let me rest, for my spirit has had its bounty of days and nights; Light the candles and burn the incense around my bed, and Scatter leaves of jasmine and roses over my body; Embalm my hair with frankincense and sprinkle my feet with perfume, And read what the hand of Death has written on my forehead. Let me rest in the arms of Slumber, for my open eyes are tired; Let the silver-stringed lyre quiver and soothe my spirit; Weave from the harp and lute a veil around my withering heart. Sing of the past as you behold the dawn of hope in my eyes, for It's magic meaning is a soft bed upon which my heart rests. Dry your tears, my friends, and raise your heads as the flowers Raise their crowns to greet the dawn. Look at the bride of Death standing like a column of light Between my bed and the infinite; Hold your breath and listen with me to the beckoning rustle of Her white wings. Come close and bid me farewell; touch my eyes with smiling lips. Let the children grasp my hands with soft and rosy fingers; Let the ages place their veined hands upon my head and bless me; Let the virgins come close and see the shadow of God in my eyes, And hear the echo of His will racing with my breath. Part Two - The AscendingI have passed a mountain peak and my soul is soaring in the Firmament of complete and unbound freedom; I am far, far away, my companions, and the clouds are Hiding the hills from my eyes. The valleys are becoming flooded with an ocean of silence, and the Hands of oblivion are engulfing the roads and the houses; The prairies and fields are disappearing behind a white specter That looks like the spring cloud, yellow as the candlelight And red as the twilight. The songs of the waves and the hymns of the streams Are scattered, and the voices of the throngs reduced to silence; And I can hear naught but the music of Eternity In exact harmony with the spirit's desires. I am cloaked in full whiteness; I am in comfort; I am in peace. Part Three - The RemainsUnwrap me from this white linen shroud and clothe me With leaves of jasmine and lilies; Take my body from the ivory casket and let it rest Upon pillows of orange blossoms. Lament me not, but sing songs of youth and joy; Shed not tears upon me, but sing of harvest and the winepress; Utter no sigh of agony, but draw upon my face with your Finger the symbol of Love and Joy. Disturb not the air's tranquility with chanting and requiems, But let your hearts sing with me the song of Eternal Life; Mourn me not with apparel of black, But dress in color and rejoice with me; Talk not of my departure with sighs in your hearts; close Your eyes and you will see me with you forevermore. Place me upon clusters of leaves and Carry my upon your friendly shoulders and Walk slowly to the deserted forest. Take me not to the crowded burying ground lest my slumber Be disrupted by the rattling of bones and skulls. Carry me to the cypress woods and dig my grave where violets And poppies grow not in the other's shadow; Let my grave be deep so that the flood will not Carry my bones to the open valley; Let my grace be wide, so that the twilight shadows Will come and sit by me. Take from me all earthly raiment and place me deep in my Mother Earth; and place me with care upon my mother's breast. Cover me with soft earth, and let each handful be mixed With seeds of jasmine, lilies and myrtle; and when they Grow above me, and thrive on my body's element they will Breathe the fragrance of my heart into space; And reveal even to the sun the secret of my peace; And sail with the breeze and comfort the wayfarer. Leave me then, friends - leave me and depart on mute feet, As the silence walks in the deserted valley; Leave me to God and disperse yourselves slowly, as the almond And apple blossoms disperse under the vibration of Nisan's breeze. Go back to the joy of your dwellings and you will find there That which Death cannot remove from you and me. Leave with place, for what you see here is far away in meaning From the earthly world. Leave me. |
Khalil Gibran |
298 | 2018-02-27 03:55:16 | I Died For Beauty poem | I died for beauty, but was scarceAdjusted in the tomb,When one who died for truth was lainIn an adjoining room. He questioned softly why I failed?"For beauty," I replied."And I for truth - the two are one;We brethren are," he said. And so, as kinsmen met a-night,We talked between the rooms,Until the moss had reached our lips,And covered up our names. | Emily Dickinson |
299 | 2018-02-27 03:55:22 | Before The Throne Of Beauty Xxvi poem | One heavy day I ran away from the grim face of society and the dizzying clamor of the city and directed my weary step to the spacious alley. I pursued the beckoning course of the rivulet and the musical sounds of the birds until I reached a lonely spot where the flowing branches of the trees prevented the sun from the touching the earth. I stood there, and it was entertaining to my soul - my thirsty soul who had seen naught but the mirage of life instead of its sweetness. I was engrossed deeply in thought and my spirits were sailing the firmament when a hour, wearing a sprig of grapevine that covered part of her naked body, and a wreath of poppies about her golden hair, suddenly appeared to me. As she she realized my astonishment, she greeted me saying, 'Fear me not; I am the Nymph of the Jungle.' 'How can beauty like yours be committed to live in this place? Please tell me who your are, and whence you come? ' I asked. She sat gracefully on the green grass and responded, 'I am the symbol of nature! I am the ever virgin your forefathers worshipped, and to my honor they erected shrines and temples at Baalbek and Jbeil.' And I dared say, 'But those temples and shrines were laid waste and the bones of my adoring ancestors became a part of the earth; nothing was left to commemorate their goddess save a pitiful few and the forgotten pages in the book of history.' She replied, 'Some goddesses live in the lives of their worshippers and die in their deaths, while some live an eternal and infinite life. My life is sustained by the world of beauty which you will see where ever you rest your eyes, and this beauty is nature itself; it is the beginning of the shepherds joy among the hills, and a villagers happiness in the fields, and the pleasure of the awe filled tribes between the mountains and the plains. This Beauty promotes the wise into the throne the truth.' Then I said, 'Beauty is a terrible power! ' And she retorted, 'Human beings fear all things, even yourselves. You fear heaven, the source of spiritual peace; you fear nature, the haven of rest and tranquility; you fear the God of goodness and accuse him of anger, while he is full of love and mercy.' After a deep silence, mingled with sweet dreams, I asked, 'Speak to me of that beauty which the people interpret and define, each one according to his own conception; I have seen her honored and worshipped in different ways and manners.' She answered, 'Beauty is that which attracts your soul, and that which loves to give and not to receive. When you meet Beauty, you feel that the hands deep within your inner self are stretched forth to bring her into the domain of your heart. It is the magnificence combined of sorrow and joy; it is the Unseen which you see, and the Vague which you understand, and the Mute which you hear - it is the Holy of Holies that begins in yourself and ends vastly beyond your earthly imagination.' Then the Nymph of the Jungle approached me and laid her scented hands upon my eyes. And as she withdrew, I found me alone in the valley. When I returned to the city, whose turbulence no longer vexed me, I repeated her words: 'Beauty is that which attracts your soul, and that which loves to give and not to receive.' |
Khalil Gibran |
300 | 2018-02-27 03:55:29 | Beauty And Beauty poem | When Beauty and Beauty meet All naked, fair to fair,The earth is crying-sweet, And scattering-bright the air,Eddying, dizzying, closing round, With soft and drunken laughter;Veiling all that may befall After -- after --Where Beauty and Beauty met, Earth's still a-tremble there,And winds are scented yet, And memory-soft the air,Bosoming, folding glints of light, And shreds of shadowy laughter;Not the tears that fill the years After -- after -- |
Rupert Brooke |
poem.id | poem.ts | poem.title | poem.content | poem.author |