Music poems
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Love's Gifts
© Marian Osborne
BELOVED, can I make return to thee
For all the gifts which thy rich heart doth hold,
From the Somme
© Leslie Coulson
In other days I sang of simple things,
Of summer dawn, and summer noon and night,
The dewy grass, the dew wet fairy rings,
The larks long golden flight.
Revealment
© Madison Julius Cawein
A sense of sadness in the golden air;
A pensiveness, that has no part in care,
As if the Season, by some woodland pool,
Braiding the early blossoms in her hair,
Seeing her loveliness reflected there,
Had sighed to find herself so beautiful.
Serenade
© Madison Julius Cawein
By the burnished laurel line
Glimmering flows the singing stream;
Oily eddies crease and shine
O'er white pebbles, white as cream.
Longfellow
© Henry Van Dyke
In a great land, a new land, a land full of labour
and riches and confusion,
Where there were many running to and fro, and
shouting, and striving together,
In the midst of the hurry and the troubled noise,
I heard the voice of one singing.
The Sword Of Pain
© George Essex Evans
The Lights burn dim and make weird shadow-play,
The white walls of the ward are changed to grey,
Two In One
© George MacDonald
Were thou and I the white pinions
On some eager, heaven-born dove,
Swift would we mount to the old dominions,
To our rest of old, my love!
Hymn To Jazz And The Like
© Eli Siegel
What is sound, as standing for the world and the mind of man at
any time, and in any situation?
Sound is an unknown, immeasurable reservoir which has been gone
into and used to have chants, rituals, jigs, bourrées, sonatas,
Hymn To The Sun
© Matthew Prior
Light of the World, and Ruler of the Year,
With happy Speed begin Thy great Career;
Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun In The House
© Billy Collins
The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
Crustacean Rejoinder
© Kenneth Slessor
TAKE your great light away, your music end;
I'm off to feed myself as quick as I can.
You're perfectly impossible to comprehend,
I'm such a busy man.
Once
© Trumbull Stickney
THAT day her eyes were deep as night.
She had the motion of the rose,
The bird that veers across the light,
The waterfall that leaps and throws
Its irised spindrift to the sun.
She seemed a wind of music passing on.
Mogg Megone - Part III.
© John Greenleaf Whittier
Ah! weary Priest! - with pale hands pressed
On thy throbbing brow of pain,
A Fragment: To Music
© Percy Bysshe Shelley
Silver key of the fountain of tears,
Where the spirit drinks till the brain is wild;
Softest grave of a thousand fears,
Where their mother, Care, like a drowsy child,
Is laid asleep in flowers.
Birds
© Robinson Jeffers
The fierce musical cries of a couple of sparrowhawks hunting
on the headland,
