Music poems
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The Passing Glory
© Madison Julius Cawein
Slow sinks the sun,--a great carbuncle ball
Red in the cavern of a sombre cloud,--
Eight Epitaphs
© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)
You liked your scrolls ? Here they are.
The manuscript of your book ? Here it is.
Your wine and figs ? Here they are.
The portrait of your wife ? Here it is.
Your garden and your house ? Here they are.
The box you never opened ? Here it is.
Wreath Of Sonnets
© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)
And if sometimes they happen to perform
Some droning dance which smells of here and now,
With springing forms and circles staying warm,
They start to tremble on a pointed prow
Of universe and dream of their home
In whirls destroying leaves to leave a bough.
Kings College Chapel
© Charles Causley
When to the music of Byrd or Tallis,
The ruffed boys singing in the blackened stalls,
The candles lighting the small bones on their faces,
The Tudors stiff in marble on the walls.
Ode (From The Gaelic)
© George Borrow
Is luaimnach mo chodal an nochd.
Oh restless, to night, are my slumbers;
A Song. If Wine And Music Have The Power
© Matthew Prior
If wine and music have the power
To ease the sickness of the soul,
The Mountain Splitter
© Henry Lawson
HE WORKS in the glen where the waratah grows,
And the gums and the ashes are tall,
Neath cliffs that re-echo the sound of his blows
When the wedges leap in from the mawl.
Her Memories
© Augusta Davies Webster
NOT by her grave: thither I bid them take
Fresh garlands of the flowers that pleased her best,
Looking For A Monk And Not Finding Him
© Li Po
I took a small path leading
up a hill valley, finding there
a temple, its gate covered
with moss, and in front of
Sittin' On The Porch
© Edgar Albert Guest
Sittin' on the porch at night when all the tasks are done,
Just restin' there an' talkin', with my easy slippers on,
An' my shirt band thrown wide open an' my feet upon the rail,
Oh, it's then I'm at my richest, with a wealth that cannot fail;
For the scent of early roses seems to flood the evening air,
An' a throne of downright gladness is my wicker rocking chair.
In The Shadow Of The Beeches
© Madison Julius Cawein
In the shadow of the beeches,
Where the fragile wildflowers bloom;
To Arthur Upson
© William Stanley Braithwaite
How placidly this silent river rolls
Under the midnight stars before our feet,
April
© Rémy Belleau
April, pride of woodland ways,
Of glad days,
April, bringing hope of prime,
To the young flowers that beneath
Their bud sheath
Are guarded in their tender time;
Elegy XV. In Memory of a Private Family in Worcestershire
© William Shenstone
From a lone tower, with reverend ivy crown'd,
The pealing bell awaked a tender sigh;
Still, as the village caught the waving sound,
A swelling tear distream'd from every eye.
Daybreak In Alabama
© Langston Hughes
When I get to be a composer
I'm gonna write me some music about
Daybreak in Alabama
And I'm gonna put the purtiest songs in it
The Weary Blues
© Langston Hughes
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 2. The Musician's Tale; The Ballad of Carmilhan - IV.
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
And now along the horizon's edge
Mountains of cloud uprose,
Black as with forests underneath,
Above their sharp and jagged teeth
Were white as drifted snows.
