Leda and the Swan

By W. B. Yeats

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

Read more poems from William Butler Yeats

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You Can Still Be Free

Song Lyrics on Allspirit

Savage Garden

Cool breeze and autumn leaves
Slow motion daylight
A lone pair of watchful eyes
Oversee the living
Feel the presence all around
A tortured soul
A wound unhealing
NO regrets or promises
The past is gone
But you can still be free
If time will set you free

Time now to spread your wings
To take to flight
The life endeavor
Aim for the burning sun
You’re trapped inside
But you can still be free
If time will set you free
But it’s a long long way to go

Keep moving way up high
You see the light
It shines forever
Sail through the crimson skies
The purest light
The light that sets you free
If time will set you free

Sail through the wind and rain tonight
You’re free to fly tonight
And you can still be free
If time will set you free
And going higher than mountain tops
And go high the wind won’t stop
And go high
Free to fly tonight
Free to fly tonight

Index of Lyrics on Allspirit

 

Hard Times

By Rabindranath Tagore

Music is silenced, the dark descending slowly
Has stripped unending skies of all companions.
Weariness grips your limbs and within the locked horizons
Dumbly ring the bells of hugely gathering fears.
Still, O bird, O sightless bird,
Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings.

It’s not melodious woodlands but the leaps and falls
Of an ocean’s drowsy booming,
Not a grove bedecked with flowers but a tumult flecked with foam.
Where is the shore that stored your buds and leaves?
Where the nest and the branch’s hold?
Still, O bird, my sightless bird,
Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings.

Stretching in front of you the night’s immensity
Hides the western hill where sleeps the distant sun;
Still with bated breath the world is counting time and swimming
Across the shoreless dark a crescent moon
Has thinly just appeared upon the dim horizon.
–But O my bird, O sightless bird,
Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings.

From upper skies the stars with pointing fingers
Intently watch your course and death’s impatience
Lashes at you from the deeps in swirling waves ;
And sad entreaties line the farthest shore
With hands outstretched and crooning ‘ Come, O come ! ‘
Still, O bird, O sightless bird,
Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings.

All that is past: your fears and loves and hopes ;
All that is lost: your words and lamentation ;
No longer yours a home nor a bed composed of flowers.
For wings are all you have, and the sky’s broadening countryard,
And the dawn steeped in darkness, lacking all direction.
Dear bird, my sightless bird,
Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings!

(translation Buddhadeva Bose)

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Silent Flight

 

By Chris Roe

In the silence
The clarity of your voice,
Climbs high
Upon the eagle’s wings.
The chains of doubt
That imprison my soul,
Fall away beneath my feet.
In the freedom and majesty
Of the sentinels gaze,
Faith is strengthened
And hope returned
To a weary heart,
Upon the silent flight
Of eagle’s wings.

The above poem is from

‘In Search of Silence’

a collection of 45 poems written by Chris Roe including 7 watercolour prints by his brother Paul

Visit Silent Flight Publications for more details

Read more poems from Chris Roe

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Religion

Kahlil Gibran

From The Prophet

AND an old priest said, Speak to us of Religion.
And he said:

Have I spoken this day of aught else?

Is not religion all deeds and all reflection,
And that which is neither deed nor
reflection, but a wonder and a surprise ever
springing in the soul, even while the hands
hew the stone or tend the loom?

Who can separate his faith from his actions,
or his belief from his occupations?

Who can spread his hours before him, saying,
“This for God and this for myself;
This for my soul, and this other for my body?”

All your hours are wings that beat through
space from self to self.

He who wears his morality but as his best
garment were better naked.

The wind and the sun will tear no holes
in his skin.

And he who defines his conduct by ethics
imprisons his song-bird in a cage.

The freest song comes not through bars
and wires.

And he to whom worshipping is a window, to open
but also to shut, has not yet visited the house
of his soul whose windows are from dawn to dawn.

Your daily life is your temple and your
religion.

Whenever you enter into it take with
you your all.

Take the plough and the forge and
the mallet and the lute, The things
you have fashioned in necessity or for delight.

For in revery you cannot rise above your
achievements nor fall lower than your failures.

And take with you all men:

For in adoration you cannot fly higher
than their hopes nor humble yourself lower
than their despair.

And if you would know God be not
therefore a solver of riddles.

Rather look about you and you shall see
Him playing with your children.

And look into space; you shall see Him
walking in the cloud, outstretching His arms
in the lightning and descending in rain.

You shall see Him smiling in flowers,
then rising and waving His hands in trees.

Read more  Kahlil Gibran poems

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Eddy

It was pure poetry
when you were
a lone traveler
in your canoe and
suddenly the sky
darkened by a flock
of migrating birds.
All you could hear was
the flapping of their wings
and their wild calls.
For a brief time there was
no time.
You put your hands around
your shoulders and looked
the other way where
a lone bird was flying
in the opposite direction
determined, noble and
uncertain.
You saw the bird among
the crowd of many.
“That was my unwritten poem”,
you said.
“Where everything is
so urgent to survive,
I go where the unknown may
or may not welcome me.
I go embracing pain
to be embraced by
beauty”.

Hydeh Aubon (1/27/09)