Music poems
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Liturgy: Visiting P.K.
© Meyer Bruce
There is a woman floating in a windowTransparentChristmas wreaths in passing housesShine now in eye and now in hair, in heart.-- P.K. Page, "Reflection in a Train Window"
Spanish Waters
© John Masefield
Spanish waters, Spanish waters, you are ringing in my ears,Like a slow sweet piece of music from the grey forgotten years;Telling tales, and beating tunes, and bringing weary thoughts to meOf the sandy beach at Muertos, where I would that I could be
Breath
© Marquis Donald Robert Perry
We are the shaken slaves of Breath:For logic leaves the race unstirred;But cadence, and the vibrant word,Are lords of life, are lords of death.
The Girl behind the Man behind the Gun
© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley
You have seen the line of khaki swinging grandly down the street,You have heard the band blare out Britannic songs;You have read a ton of papers and you've thrown them at your feet,And your brain's a battlefield for fighting throngs
April
© Andrew Lang
April, pride of woodland ways, Of glad days,April, bringing hope of prime,To the young flowers that beneath Their bud sheathAre guarded in their tender time;
Endymion
© John Keats
BOOK IIts loveliness increases; it will neverPass into nothingness; but still will keepA bower quiet for us, and a sleepFull of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing
London: A Poem, in Imitation of the Third Satire of Juvenal
© Samuel Johnson
Though grief and fondness in my breast rebel,
Shadow River: Muskoka
© Emily Pauline Johnson
A stream of tender gladness,Of filmy sun, and opal tinted skies ;Of warm midsummer air that lightly liesIn mystic rings,Where softly swingsThe music of a thousand wingsThat almost tones to sadness.
Flint and Feather
© Emily Pauline Johnson
Ojistoh1.2Of him whose name breathes bravery and life1.3And courage to the tribe that calls him chief.1.4I am Ojistoh, his white star, and he1.5Is land, and lake, and sky--and soul to me.
In Darkness
© Hyde Robin
Lying awake in the darkI have suddenly thought(At the clasp of unseen fingers under my head),"God is no moreThan any apple-bough, then,Where the birds of the air have nest --Than the little, hardly-soughtHome of the field-mouse, high in the tawny grain,Where the spoiler looks in vain;Than the lowly earthen doorWhere the vixen runs to hide, as the bold hunt passesIn flurry of blood-red music and blood-crazed men;Than the bending meadow grassesUnder the breast of the lark
Half Moon
© Hyde Robin
The little pools of starlight splashAgainst the poplars' slender lines;The moon is like a golden comb,Caught in the tresses of the pines.
Growing Old
© Hyde Robin
This it is to grow old,That I shall loseThe gift of laughter at small and simple things;And, if ever old dreams fly past me, the brush of wings,Damp with Elysian dews,Will seem strange and cold
Defeat
© Hyde Robin
But that was no defeat. Defeat, my friend,Is a simple thing, and past your understanding.Defeat is no cry in the night, no sudden bandingTogether of men beleaguered, no comrade glance at the end ...
An Agnostic Hymn
© Huxley Henrietta Anne Heathorn
Oh! not the unreasoning God for me,Foreseeing, knowing allThat in the wondrous world he madeHis creatures should befall.
