What is the poem, Music I Heard, by Conrad Aiken about?
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In the poem "Music I Heard", written by Conrad Aiken, the love expressed is different. The character of the poem is a man, that is speaking about his loved one. Full of memories, he has flashbacks of when the loved one was around him and his belongings. After the loved person left, he is lonely. The memories are coming back to him in the quote (line #5), " Your hands one touched this table and this silver". He misses her and the good times they had together. He wants to have her come back to him. She is now only in his heart full of past memories.\n\nThe feeling that love brings in this poem is sadness. The sadness of missing the loved one is great. He is lonely and full of memories that still light up his hopes for having her come back. He remembers her actions and what she touched, but only the memories are left. The sadness is expressed in this quote (line # 3-4) by the character. "Now that I am without you all is desolate;/ and all that was once so beautiful is dead." He misses her a lot, and does not like things that much as he did when she was around.
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The song in question is "Hear My Name" by Armand Van Helden
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I think this is the info you want.\n\nComposers: music by Henry Nicola Mancini (ASCAP),\n           English lyric by Johnny Mercer (ASCAP
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Vincent by Don McClean. So sad. It's about Vincent Van Gogh.\n"I could have told you Vincent, this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you"  Ah, welling up just writing it!
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There is a poem by David Budbill called\n"AFTER LOOKING AT AN ANONYMOUS SUNG–DYNASTY PAINTING CALLED LAKE"
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i think you might be referring to the libretto or the story/text that music is based on?
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The Last Farewell (English version of Mi Ultimo Adios) by Jose Rizal\n\nFarewell, my adored Land, region of the sun caressed, \nPearl of the Orient Sea, our Eden lost,\nWith gladness I give you my Life, sad and repressed;\nAnd were it more brilliant, more fresh and at its best,\nI would still give it to you for your welfare at most.\n\nOn the fields of battle, in the fury of fight,\nOthers give you their lives without pain or hesitancy,\nThe place does not matter: cypress laurel, lily white,\nScaffold, open field, conflict or martyrdom's site,\nIt is the same if asked by home and Country.\n\nI die as I see tints on the sky b'gin to show\nAnd at last announce the day, after a gloomy night;\nIf you need a hue to dye your matutinal glow,\nPour my blood and at the right moment spread it so,\nAnd gild it with a reflection of your nascent light! \n\nMy dreams, when scarcely a lad adolescent,\nMy dreams when already a youth, full of vigor to attain,\nWere to see you, gem of the sea of the Orient,\nYour dark eyes dry, smooth brow held to a high plane\nWithout frown, without wrinkles and of shame without stain.\n\nMy life's fancy, my ardent, passionate desire,\nHail! Cries out the soul to you, that will soon part from thee;\nHail! How sweet 'tis to fall that fullness you may acquire;\nTo die to give you life, 'neath your skies to expire,\nAnd in your mystic land to sleep through eternity!\n\nIf over my tomb some day, you would see blow,\nA simple humble flow'r amidst thick grasses,\nBring it up to your lips and kiss my soul so,\nAnd under the cold tomb, I may feel on my brow,\nWarmth of your breath, a whiff of your tenderness.\n\nLet the moon with soft, gentle light me descry,\nLet the dawn send forth its fleeting, brilliant light,\nIn murmurs grave allow the wind to sigh,\nAnd should a bird descend on my cross and alight,\nLet the bird intone a song of peace o'er my site.\n\nLet the burning sun the raindrops vaporize\nAnd with my clamor behind return pure to the sky;\nLet a friend shed tears over my early demise;\nAnd on quiet afternoons when one prays for me on high,\nPray too, oh, my Motherland, that in God may rest I.\n\nPray thee for all the hapless who have died,\nFor all those who unequalled torments have undergone;\nFor our poor mothers who in bitterness have cried;\nFor orphans, widows and captives to tortures were shied,\nAnd pray too that you may see your own redemption.\n\nAnd when the dark night wraps the cemet'ry\nAnd only the dead to vigil there are left alone,\nDon't disturb their repose, don't disturb the mystery:\nIf you hear the sounds of cittern or psaltery,\nIt is I, dear Country, who, a song t'you intone.\n\nAnd when my grave by all is no more remembered,\nWith neither cross nor stone to mark its place,\nLet it be plowed by man, with spade let it be scattered\nAnd my ashes ere to nothingness are restored,\nLet them turn to dust to cover your earthly space.\n\nThen it doesn't matter that you should forget me:\nYour atmosphere, your skies, your vales I'll sweep;\nVibrant and clear note to your ears I shall be:\nAroma, light, hues, murmur, song, moanings deep,\nConstantly repeating the essence of the faith I keep.\n\nMy idolized Country, for whom I most gravely pine,\nDear Philippines, to my last goodbye, oh, harken\nThere I leave all: my parents, loves of mine,\nI'll go where there are no slaves, tyrants or hangmen\nWhere faith does not kill and where God alone does reign.\n\nFarewell, parents, brothers, beloved by me,\nFriends of my childhood, in the home distressed;\nGive thanks that now I rest from the wearisome day;\nFarewell, sweet stranger, my friend, who brightened my way;\nFarewell, to all I love. To die is to rest.
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I am not sure but it might be a piece from Chopin
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Love\nThen said Almitra, speak to us of Love.\nAnd he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said: \nWhen love beckons to you , follow him, Though his ways are hard and steep. \nAnd when his wings enfold you yield to him, Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.\nAnd when he speaks to you believe in him,\nThough his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.\nFor even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. \nEven as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.\n\nLike sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.\nHe threshes you to make you naked. He sifts you to free you from your husks.\nHe grinds you to whiteness. \nHe kneads you until you are pliant; \nAnd then he assign you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.\nAll these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become fragment of Life’s heart.\n\nBut if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure, \nThen it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor,\nInto the seasonless world there you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your treas.\nLove gives naught but itself and take naught but from itself.\nLove possesses not nor would it be possessed;\nFor love is sufficient unto love.\nWhen you love you should not say God is in my heart\nAnd think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.\nLove has not other desire but to fulfil itself.\nBut if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:\nTo melt and belike a running brook that sings its melody to the night.\nTo know the pain of too much tenderness.\nAnd to bleed willingly and joyfully .\nTo wake at dawn with a winged heard and give thanks for another day of loving;\nTo rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy;\nTo return home at eventide with gratitude;\nAnd then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.\n\nFrom book THE PROPHET BY KAHLIL GIBRAN
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A Sorrow Too Deep for Tears \n a sorrow too deep for tears\na sorrow built up by fears\n\na sorrow created from a lye\na sorrow I cannot cry\n\na sorrow that just isn't fair\na sorrow that I can't bare \n\na sorrow that has scarred my mind\na sorrow that will never unwind\n\na sorrow that can't be real\na sorrow too hard to describe how I feel\n\na sorrow too deep for tears \nBy MixedEmotion17 \n\n\n© 2004 MixedEmotion17 (All rights reserved)\n \n \nor: The River, Part II \n- Too Deep for Tears\nI only hope that I can scratch the surface of the feeling behind this idea. I finally found the source for the words in the scene from A River Runs through It that I mentioned a couple weeks ago. The beauty of the language, the subject matter and the fact that the scene begins with Norman and Paul's dad (the Preacher) reading from a book led me to believe it was one of the Psalms that I didn't know. Turns out, it's a collage of verses taken from a William Wordsworth poem called "Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood".\n\nIn the movie, the scene sets up as Norman has just received a letter from the University of Chicago accepting him as an instructor and a graduate student. As he walks into the house, he hears his father in the study reading aloud:\n\nOur birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:\nThe Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, \nHath had elsewhere its setting, \nAnd cometh from afar: \nNot in entire forgetfulness, \nAnd not in utter nakedness, \nBut trailing clouds of glory do we come \nFrom God, who is our home\nNothing can bring back the hour \nNorman begins reciting some of the same lines by memory, and he and his father trade lines back and forth...\n\nOf splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; \nWe will grieve not, rather find \nStrength in what remains behind; \nIn the primal sympathy \nWhich having been must ever be; \nIn the soothing thoughts that spring \nOut of human suffering; \nIn the faith that looks through death\nThanks to the human heart by which we live, \nThanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, \nTo me the meanest flower that blows can give \nAnd they complete the last line in unison...\n\nThoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.\nThe lines used in the movie leave out a fair amount of Wordsworth's original and they have a different emphasis than the entire poem as a result. To me, the scene speaks of the ways of emotional expression among the men of the old West - the attitude that there are things that are shared with little outward emotion because the emotions are "too deep for tears". But in the mutual relationship with that poem, Norman and his father connect with each other and with their shared experience in a way that leaves no doubt of the depth of their love for each other. This scene cuts to the core of the pride of the father in a successful son and the respect and love of the son for the father's guidance in reaching that success.\n\nMy father and I went through many years of not understanding each other and not communicating well. For quite some time we didn't have anything at all to say to each other. There are good reasons for this from each of our viewpoints, even though it's a situation that we both wish could have come out differently. But in the past few years, we've both made the effort to close those gaps and put aside the old injuries. And in doing so, we can now communicate honestly and fearlessly with each other.\n\nThe last significant piece in the rebuilding of this relationship was when I finally came out to him a few months ago. He really already knew, but also knew that it was not a conversation he could force on me. More than any other of my family and friends, he was the one dropping hints about his suspicions and about being OK with it.\n\nI've expressed my amazement in a previous post about how peaceful and clear Dad has become these last few months. And
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The Hush Sound=great band.\n\nWho shot that arrow in your throat?\nWho missed the crimson apple?\n it hung heavy on the tree above your head\nThis chaos, this calamity, this garden once was perfect\nGive your immortality to me, I'll set you up against the stars\n\nGloria, we lied, we can't go on\nThis is the time and this is the place to be, alive\n\nWho shot that arrow in your throat?\nWho missed the crimson apple?\nand there is discord in the garden tonight\n\nThe sea is wine red\nThis is the death of beauty\nThe doves have died\nThe lovers have lied\n\nI caught the arrow from your neck\nStretched you beneath the tree\nAlong the roots and baby's breath \nI covered us with silver leaves\n\nGloria, we lied, we can't go on\nThis is the time and this is the place to be, alive\n\nThe sea is wine red\nThis is the death of beauty\nThe doves have died\nThe lovers have lied\n\nThe sea is wine red\nThis is the death of beauty\nThe doves have died\nThe lovers have lied\n\nThe sea is wine red\nThis is the death of beauty\nThe doves have died\nThe lovers have lied
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It's by Asche & Spencer music company. Check out the sources listed.
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Caroline's Spine\nfrom the album Monsoon\n\n"Sullivan"\nIt's not hard to reach back to the day \nunderneath an Iowa sun. \nrunning to the tower of waterloo, looking \nfor the sullivan train to come. \nHis five boys would run to the top and \nsalute him as he went bye. \nFirst we'd wave hello. \nThen we'd wave goodbye. \n\nIt's not hard to reach back to the days \nafter the attack on Pearl. \nOvernight my buddies turned into men, run- \nning out of time for games and girls. \nThe Sullivan boys were not overlooked \nUncle Sam calling each by name. \nThe very next day they left on a mystery \ntrain. \n\nSay goodbye, bye, bye, Mrs. Sullivan \ndon't you cry, cry, cry, cry, cry. \n"We regret to inform you \nthe Navy has taken your sons away." \nSo put your blue star in the window. \n\nIt's not hard to reach back to her smile, \nwhen she received the letter. \nThe ltters, they sounded generally the \nsame it said: "If they coudn't \nbe home, at least they were together on a \nmighty fighting battleship, \nsomewhere in the south pacific." \nThe letters never got much more specific. \n\nSay goodbye, bye, bye, mrs sullivan \ndont you cry, cry, cry, cry, cry. \n"we regret to infrom you \nthe Navy is keeping your sons away." \nAll five, five, five, five. \nSo keep your blue star in the window. \n\nIt's not hard to reach back to the day \nwhen the war finally came home. \nUncle Sam will send you a telegram, so he \ndoesnt have to tell you over the phone. \nI heard she cracked up, when they found \nout what the war had cost, \nand all five of her boys were lost. \n\nSay goodbye mrs sullivan \ngo ahead and cry. \n"We regret to inform you that all your sons \nhave passed away." \n.....All five! \nSo change your blue star to gold.
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"I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" is a poem by Maya Angelou as well as the title of her autobiography. \n\nA related poem is "Rape" by Adrienne Rich.
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Vincent\n\nIt's an old song. I don't know who was the artist. But it's all about Vincent Van Gogh and his life. It's how he suffered and finally ended up his life.\n\nIt talked about how people could never understand him. I can identify cuz I was severely depressed and I felt exactly like that too.. Crazy, beautiful.\n\nHere are the lyrics:\n\nV1\nStarry, starry night\nPaint your palette blue and gray.\nLook out on a summer's day\nWith eyes that know the darkness in my soul.\nShadows on the hills,\nSketch the trees and daffodils,\nCatch the breeze and the winter chill\nIn colors on the snowy linen land.\nChorus\nNow I understand what you tried to say to me\nAnd how you suffered for your sanity\nAnd how you tried to set them free.\nThey would not listen.\nThey did not know how.\nPerhaps theyll listen now.\n\nV2\nStarry, starry night\nFlaming flowers that brightly blaze\nSwirling cloud and violet haze\nReflect in Vincents eyes of China blue.\nColors changing hue.\nMourning fields of amber grain\nWeathered faces lined in pain\nAre soothed beneath the artists loving hands.\n\nChorus\nNow I understand what you tried to say to me\nAnd how you suffered for your sanity\nAnd how you tried to set them free.\nThey would not listen\nThey did not know how\nPerhaps theyll listen now.\n\nV3\nFor they could not love you\nBut still your love was true.\nAnd when no hope was left inside\nOn that starry, starry night\nYou took your life as lovers often do.\nBut I could have told you, Vincent,\nThis world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.\n\nV4\nLike the strangers that youve met,\nThe ragged men in ragged clothes.\nThe silver thorn, a bloody rose\nLie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.\nNow I think I know what you tried to say to me\nAnd how you suffered for your sanity.\nAnd how you tried to set them free.\nThey would not listen.\nTheyre not listening still\nPerhaps they never will.
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A Red Red Rose by Robert Burns is a good one. It's my favorite.\n\nO my Luve's like a red, red rose, \nThat's newly sprung in June: \nO my Luve's like the melodie, \nThat's sweetly play'd in tune. \n\nAs fair art thou, my bonie lass, \nSo deep in luve am I; \nAnd I will luve thee still, my dear, \nTill a' the seas gang dry. \n\nTill a' the seas gang dry, my dear, \nAnd the rocks melt wi' the sun; \nAnd I will luve thee still, my dear, \nWhile the sands o' life shall run. \n\nAnd fare-thee-weel, my only Luve! \nAnd fare-thee-weel, a while! \nAnd I will come again, my Luve, \nTho' 'twere ten thousand mile!\n\nEnglish teachers love this one
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Really don’t mind if you sit this one out.\nMy words but a whisper -- your deafness a shout.\nI may make you feel but I can’t make you think.\nYour sperm’s in the gutter -- your love’s in the sink.\nSo you ride yourselves over the fields and\nYou make all your animal deals and\nYour wise men don’t know how it feels to be thick as a brick.\nAnd the sand-castle virtues are all swept away in\nThe tidal destruction\nThe moral melee.\nThe elastic retreat rings the close of play as the last wave uncovers\nThe newfangled way.\nBut your new shoes are worn at the heels and\nYour suntan does rapidly peel and\nYour wise men don’t know how it feels to be thick as a brick.\n\nAnd the love that I feel is so far away:\nI’m a bad dream that I just had today -- and you\nShake your head and\nSay it’s a shame.\n\nSpin me back down the years and the days of my youth.\nDraw the lace and black curtains and shut out the whole truth.\nSpin me down the long ages: let them sing the song.\n\nSee there! a son is born -- and we pronounce him fit to fight.\nThere are black-heads on his shoulders, and he pees himself in the night.\nWe’ll\nMake a man of him\nPut him to trade\nTeach him\nTo play monopoly and\nTo sing in the rain.\n\nThe poet and the painter casting shadows on the water --\nAs the sun plays on the infantry returning from the sea.\nThe do-er and the thinker: no allowance for the other --\nAs the failing light illuminates the mercenary’s creed.\nThe home fire burning: the kettle almost boiling --\nBut the master of the house is far away.\nThe horses stamping -- their warm breath clouding\nIn the sharp and frosty morning of the day.\nAnd the poet lifts his pen while the soldier sheaths his sword.\n\nAnd the youngest of the family is moving with authority.\nBuilding castles by the sea, he dares the tardy tide to wash them all aside.\n\nThe cattle quietly grazing at the grass down by the river\nWhere the swelling mountain water moves onward to the sea:\nThe builder of the castles renews the age-old purpose\nAnd contemplates the milking girl whose offer is his need.\nThe young men of the household have\nAll gone into service and\nAre not to be expected for a year.\nThe innocent young master -- thoughts moving ever faster --\nHas formed the plan to change the man he seems.\nAnd the poet sheaths his pen while the soldier lifts his sword.\n\nAnd the oldest of the family is moving with authority.\nComing from across the sea, he challenges the son who puts him to the run.\n\nWhat do you do when\nThe old man’s gone -- do you want to be him? and\nYour real self sings the song.\nDo you want to free him?\nNo one to help you get up steam --\nAnd the whirlpool turns you `way off-beam.\n\nLater.\nI’ve come down from the upper class to mend your rotten ways.\nMy father was a man-of-power whom everyone obeyed.\nSo come on all you criminals!\nI’ve got to put you straight just like I did with my old man --\nTwenty years too late.\nYour bread and water’s going cold.\nYour hair is too short and neat.\nI’ll judge you all and make damn sure that no-one judges me.\n\nYou curl your toes in fun as you smile at everyone -- you meet the stares.\nYou’re unaware that your doings aren’t done.\nAnd you laugh most ruthlessly as you tell us what not to be.\nBut how are we supposed to see where we should run?\nI see you shuffle in the courtroom with\nYour rings upon your fingers and\nYour downy little sidies and\nYour silver-buckle shoes.\nPlaying at the hard case, you follow the example of the comic-paper idol\nWho lets you bend the rules.\n\nSo!\nCome on ye childhood heroes!\nWon’t you rise up from the pages of your comic-books\nYour super crooks\nAnd show us all the way.\nWell! make your will and testament. won’t you?\nJoin your local government.\nWe’ll have superman for president\nLet robin save the day.\n\nYou put your bet on number one and it comes up every time.\nThe other kids have all backed down and they put you first in line.\nAnd