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Solomon

As thro' the Psalms from theme to theme I chang'd,
Methinks like Eve in Paradice I rang'd;
And ev'ry grace of song I seem'd to see,
As the gay pride of ev'ry season, she.
She gently treading all the walks around,
Admir'd the springing beauties of the ground,
The lilly glist'ring with the morning dew,
The rose in red, the violet in blew,
The pink in pale, the bells in purple rows,
And tulips colour'd in a thousand shows:
Then here and there perhaps she pull'd a flow'r
To strew with moss, and paint her leafy bow'r;
And here and there, like her I went along,
Chose a bright strain, and bid it deck my song.

But now the sacred Singer leaves mine eye,
Crown'd as he was, I think he mounts on high;
Ere this Devotion bore his heav'nly psalms,
And now himself bears up his harp and palms.
Go, saint triumphant, leave the changing sight,

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poem by Thomas Parnell
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A Day At Tivoli - Prologue

Fair blows the breeze—depart—depart—
And tread with me th' Italian shore;
And feed thy soul with glorious art;
And drink again of classic lore.
Nor sometime shalt thou deem it wrong,
When not in mood too gravely wise,
At idle length to lie along,
And quaff a bliss from bluest skies.

Or, pleased more pensive joy to woo,
At twilight eve, by ruin grey,
Muse o'er the generations, who
Have passed, as we must pass, away.
Or mark o'er olive tree and vine
Steep towns uphung; to win from them
Some thought of Southern Palestine;
Some dream of old Jerusalem.

Come, Pilgrim-Friend! At last our sun outbreaks,
And chases, one by one, dawn's lingering flakes.

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poem by John Kenyon
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The Ballad of the White Horse

DEDICATION

Of great limbs gone to chaos,
A great face turned to night--
Why bend above a shapeless shroud
Seeking in such archaic cloud
Sight of strong lords and light?

Where seven sunken Englands
Lie buried one by one,
Why should one idle spade, I wonder,
Shake up the dust of thanes like thunder
To smoke and choke the sun?

In cloud of clay so cast to heaven
What shape shall man discern?
These lords may light the mystery
Of mastery or victory,
And these ride high in history,
But these shall not return.

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poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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Berrying

"May be true what I had heard,
Earth's a howling wilderness
Truculent with fraud and force,"
Said I, strolling through the pastures,
And along the riverside.
Caught among the blackberry vines,
Feeding on the Ethiops sweet,
Pleasant fancies overtook me:
I said, "What influence me preferred
Elect to dreams thus beautiful?"
The vines replied, "And didst thou deem
No wisdom to our berries went?"

poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson
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A String of Simile

Words bind me, wrapping around me like vines
And like vines they grow, and constrict, like a boa
And like a boa they hiss in my ear, the most wonderful things.

Words chain me, tethering my wrists and ankles like iron
And like iron they do not rot or wither, like Eternity,
And like Eternity, I do not know when they will end.

Words shackle me, holding me down like paralysis,
And like paralysis, they have no immediate cure - like Love,
And like Love, within them I am free and beautiful and alive.

poem by Sophia White
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The Grove

Blueberries and vines over the fence
like wayward lines passing over the rigids and boundaries
and bleeding;
it's skin holds the blood of the divine.
And beyond it,
the beige and tan fields swooping up and down,
down in the valley floor,
the dry brittle grain,
exposed to the sun.
'One begins to wonder in times of greater discomfort.'
The valley opens and closes for miles,
only imagining it's touch;
the distant ridge line
holds breathlessly still.
It's autumn leaves beginning,
to fall against the curtain
past the crimson red vines,
meandering through beside
The setting sun.

poem by Joseph Ostapiuk
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Water into wine

Once upon a time,
Jesus, who called himself the true vine,
turned water into wine
in an act of love.

All over the world, right now,
a million grape vines
are performing the same miracle

slowly; silently; aided by the sun;
their roots, like farmers, coal or diamond miners,
searching in the earth
for the most precious;

it doesn’t hit the headlines
but who dares say
a patient, silent, unsung love
is any less a miracle?

Who dares say that grape vines

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Shallow Thoughts...

along the shores
where the salty vines have covered our tracks
the coconuts are growing tall
and being so nearly planted
their leaves reach for each other

in a little distance
the heaps of dry leaves and husks
make a mountain
and now covered by the vines
and so concealed

beyond this place is a grass-less space
it is where most of the strangers stay
the mass of people gather
and bask under the sun

the gates here are closed more often
there are no kids
neither are there old people who take

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Variations on a Theme by Joyce

The war is in words and the wood is the world
That turns beneath our rootless feet;
the vines that reach, alive and snarled,
Across the path where the sand is swirled,
Twist in the night. The light lies flat.
The war is in words and the wood is the world.

The rain is ruin and our ruin rides
The swiftest winds; the wood is whorled
And turned and smoothed by the turning tides.
--There is rain in the woods, slow rain that breeds
The war in the words. The wood is the world.
This rain is ruin and our ruin rides.

The war is in words and the wood is the world,
Sourceless and seized and forever filled
With green vine twisting on wood more gnarled
Than dead men's hands. The vines are curled
Around these branches, crushed and killed.
The war is in words and the wood is the world.

poem by Weldon Kees
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The Tree Out My Window

Taller taller
than last year
Greener greener
than last shower
there is a tree out my window

stouter stouter
than previous year
stronger stronger
no wind can steer
the tree is standing out my window

birds, crawlers
vines and creepers
children, farmers
artists and passers
sharing prosperity with this tree out my window

calm, silent
when spring is pleasant

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poem by Tarun Sharma
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