Quotes about sylvan, page 9
Leaves
The leaves are falling one and one,
Each like a life to me,
As over-soonly in the sun
They spiral goldenly:
So airily and warily
They falter free.
The leaves are falling two and two,
Beneath a baleful sky;
So silently the sward they strew,
Reluctantly they die . . .
Rich crimson leaves,--and no one grieves
There doom but I.
The leaves are falling three and three
Beneath the mothlike moon;
They flutter downward silverly
In muted rigadoon;
And russet dry remote they lie
From feathered tune.
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poem by Robert William Service
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Champa Valley in Himachal State.
O my friends! Come and plunge
into the depths of Champa Valley.
The peaks of the Dhaulador do not gleam
and the glen below seems a gulf.
The looming winter lies in wait
for the welcoming flakes of snow to fall
and so we need no sweaters to quell the cold.
The gullies on the slopes are bereft of streams
and the pines in cols do not greet the guests!
The unstirred leaves and the brooding grass
And the absence of the whooping birds
mean the end of the Spring.
But see! The upcoming Dhonis
hit sixes in the Chaugan sward.
Trek to the Chamunda Devi Temple
and shout to hear your echoes from the hills
and the sounds die away
rattling far amid the lofty ranges.
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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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I Must Have Wanton Poets
MUST have wanton poets, pleasant wits,
Musicians, that with touching of a string
May draw the pliant king which way I please:
Music and poetry is his delight;
Therefore I'll have Italian masks by night,
Sweet speeches, comedies, and pleasing shows;
And in the day, when he shall walk abroad,
Like sylvan nymphs my pages shall be clad;
My men, like satyrs grazing on the lawns,
Shall with their goat-feet dance the antic hay;
Sometime a lovely boy in Dian's shape,
With hair that gilds the water as it glides,
Crownets of pearl about his naked arms,
And in his sportful hands an olive-tree,
To hide those parts which men delight to see,
Shall bathe him in a spring; and there, hard by,
One like Actæon, peeping through the grove,
Shall by the angry goddess be transform'd,
And running in the likeness of an hart,
By yelping hounds pull'd down, shall seem to die:
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poem by Christopher Marlowe
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A Song from Shakespeare's Cymbeline Sung by Guiderus and Ar
To fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each op'ning sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear,
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove:
But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!
The redbreast oft at ev'ning hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid:
With hoary moss, and gather'd flow'rs,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
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poem by William Taylor Collins
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The Children of the Sun
The Children of the Sun are out,
About the hills and beaches
The stolid burghers halo and stout,
The tailored sheik, the city lout,
And plain blokes with their peaches,
And dinkum coves alert and brown;
While over all the sun shines down.
The Children of the Sun are prone
To sunlight, play and pleasure;
And sober-minded mentors groan
And shake their beads and gravely moan
O'er all this love of leisure.
This lust for sport and sun they say
Will surely bring its reckoning day.
The Children of the Sun heed not,
But laugh and gather vigor,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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A Train of Stress
The rats’ adept in a rat race
Buy the tickets from a shrink,
And board a train of mental stress,
Hurriedly in a wink.
The ticket checker is death
Keeping tab on passenger’s breath.
They board in a hurry
And munch the fast foods of worry:
To reach a cemetery of success-
Which treats all with its
deadly gaze
The train driven by a crazy driver ego
Loves to keep greedy rats on their toes:
While rushing on a track of woes
It crushes alike, friends and foes.
Some jump on glitzy stations
And befriend fat diabetes and
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poem by Hitesh Sheth
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The Relics, Ajantha and Ellora
The carvers
before and after Christ
had cut marvels
out of rocks
of Deccan Plateau,
in awing Ajantha
and enchanting Ellora.
The vaulted roof
above the nave,
the Viharas for the monks,
three storeys with chappels,
the stupas
and the mural paintings
on the walls and ceilings,
the rock-hewn doors
make us petrified with surprise.
We don’t turn renegades.
We fail to decipher
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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Dirge In Cymbeline
SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIGARUS OVER FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.
TO fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd witch shall here be seen;
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!
The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,
[...] Read more
poem by William Taylor Collins
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The Martyr of Bovinia
She milked the cow; and all the morn was hushed
(It was a beast that never kicked or rushed)
The startled dicky-birds of early Spring
Sat up amazed to mark this splendid thing,
Nigh fainting with delight upon the bough . . . .
She milked the cow.
She milked the cow; nor all the glory rare
Of that October morning could compare
With that sweet sylvan scene; the grace, the charm
The rhythmic movement of her dimpled arm,
Would make a poor bloke feel just anyhow . . . .
She milked the cow.
She milked the cow. 'Twas at South Sassafras
(Which is a cruel word to rhyme,alas)
And all who gazed thereon decalred, with force,
It was sublime - except the cow, of course
Who wore a patient frown upn her brow . . . .
She milked the cow.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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In A Wook
PALE beech and pine-tree blue,
Set in one clay,
Bough to bough cannot you
Bide out your day?
When the rains skim and skip,
Why mar sweet comradeship,
Blighting with poison-drip
Neighborly spray?
Heart-halt and spirit-lame,
City-opprest,
Unto this wood I came
As to a nest;
Dreaming that sylvan peace
Offered the harrowed ease--
Nature a soft release
From men's unrest.
But, having entered in,
Great growths and small
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poem by Thomas Hardy
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