Morning’s flowers sing The sweet love songs of my heart Borne upon the breeze
Khalil Gibran(1883 -1931), Lebanese-American philosophical essayist, novelist, poet, and artist.
Khalil Gibran considered himself to be mainly a painter, lived most of his life in the United States, and wrote his best-known works in English, Kahlil Gibran was the key figure in a Romantic movement that transformed Arabic literature in the first half of the twentieth century.
Gibran’s simple and direct style was a revelation and an inspiration. His themes of alienation, disruption, and lost rural beauty and security in a modernizing world also resonated with the experiences of his readers.
He quickly found admirers and imitators among Arabic writers, and his reputation as a central figure of Arabic literary modernism has never been challenged.
I am a kind word uttered and repeated By the voice of Nature; I am a star fallen from the Blue tent upon the green carpet. I am the daughter of the elements With whom Winter conceived; To whom Spring gave birth; I was Reared in the lap of Summer and I Slept in the bed of Autumn.
At dawn I unite with the breeze To announce the coming of light; At eventide I join the birds In bidding the light farewell.
The plains are decorated with My beautiful colors, and the air Is scented with my fragrance.
As I embrace Slumber the eyes of Night watch over me, and as I Awaken I stare at the sun, which is The only eye of the day.
I drink dew for wine, and hearken to The voices of the birds, and dance To the rhythmic swaying of the grass.
I am the lover’s gift; I am the wedding wreath; I am the memory of a moment of happiness; I am the last gift of the living to the dead; I am a part of joy and a part of sorrow.
But I look up high to see only the light, And never look down to see my shadow. This is wisdom which man must learn.
Morning’s sunlight gleams Mother’s ways and words awake Memory’s music plays
Carol Ann Duffy (1955 -), British poet whose well-known and well-liked poetry engaged such topics as gender and oppression, expressing them in familiar, conversational language that made her work accessible to a variety of readers. In 2009–19 she served as the first woman poet laureate of Great Britain.
I say her phrases to myself in my head or under the shallows of my breath, restful shapes moving. The day and ever. The day and ever.
The train this slow evening goes down England browsing for the right sky, too blue swapped for a cool grey. For miles I have been saying What like is it. The way I say things when I think. Nothing is silent. Nothing is not silent. What like is it.
Only tonight I am happy and sad like a child who stood at the end of summer and dipped a net in a green, erotic pond. The day and ever. The day and ever. I am homesick, free, in love with the way my mother speaks.
Silent out of sight Mister Caterpillar feasts Summer’s bounty ripe
Robert Graves (1895 -1985) English poet, novelist, critic, and classical scholar who carried on many of the formal traditions of English verse in a period of experimentation. His more than 120 books also include a notable historical novel, I, Claudius (1934); an autobiographical classic of World War I, Good-Bye to All That (1929; rev. ed. 1957); and erudite, controversial studies in mythology.
James Gates Percival, (1795 -1856) an American poet, surgeon, and geologist.He assisted Noah Webster in editing his great American Dictionary of the English Language of 1828. poetic works include Prometheus and The Dream of a Day (1843).
His poetic works include Prometheus and The Dream of a Day (1843). A short poem by him The Language of Flowers was set to music by the English composer Edward Elgar at the age of fourteen.
DEEP in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet, and gold-fish rove, Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine, Far down in the green and glassy brine. The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow; From coral rocks the sea plants lift Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow; The water is calm and still below, For the winds and waves are absent there, And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air: There with its waving blade of green, The sea-flag streams through the silent water, And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen To bluch, like a banner bathed in slaughter: There with a light and easy motion, The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea; And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean Are bending like corn on the upland lea: And life, in rare and beautiful forms, Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms, Has made the top of the waves his own: And when the ship from his fury flies, Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies, And demons are waiting the wreck on shore; Then far below in the peaceful sea, The purple mullet, and gold-fish rove, Where the waters murmur tranquilly, Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.
In my aching heart, the sweet music of your love plucks her healing tunes.
G. K. Chesterton, (1874 -1936) was an influential English writer of the early twentieth century. His prolific and diverse output included journalism, poetry, biography, Christian apologetics, fantasy, and detective fiction.
Chesterton has been called the “prince of paradox.” He wrote in an off-hand, whimsical prose studded with startling formulations.
Other loves may sink and settle, other loves may loose and slack, But I wander like a minstrel with a harp upon his back, Though the harp be on my bosom, though I finger and I fret, Still, my hope is all before me: for I cannot play it yet.
In your strings is hid a music that no hand hath e’er let fall, In your soul is sealed a pleasure that you have not known at all; Pleasure subtle as your spirit, strange and slender as your frame, Fiercer than the pain that folds you, softer than your sorrow’s name.
Not as mine, my soul’s annointed, not as mine the rude and light Easy mirth of many faces, swaggering pride of song and fight; Something stranger, something sweeter, something waiting you afar, Secret as your stricken senses, magic as your sorrows are.
But on this, God’s harp supernal, stretched but to be stricken once, Hoary time is a beginner, Life a bungler, Death a dunce. But I will not fear to match them-no, by God, I will not fear, I will learn you, I will play you and the stars stand still to hear.