MY VIRTUAL ART GALLERY

is now being updated every day

http://myvirtualartcollection.blogspot.com

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FROM A CARRIAGE WINDOW

Alexander Anderson 1845-1909

Just a peep from a carriage window,

As we stood for a moment still,

Just one look - and no more - till the engine

Gave a whistle sharp and shrill.

But I saw in that moment the heather,

That lay like a purple sheet

On the hills that watch o’er the hamlet

That sleeps like a child at their feet.

O, sweet are those hills when the winter

Flings round them his mantle of snow,

And sweet when the sunshine of summer

Sets their fair green bosoms aglow.

But sweeter and grander in autumn,

When the winds are soft with desire,

When the buds of the heather take blossom,

And run to their summits like fire.

I saw each and all through the heather

That purple lay spread like a sheet

On the hills that watch over the hamlet,

That sleeps like a child at their feet.

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ALL THE THINGS YOU ARE

Oscar Hammerstein II 1895-1960

Time and again I've longed for adventure,

Something to make my heart beat the faster.

What did I long for? I never really knew.

Finding your love I've found my adventure,

Touching your hand, my heart beats the faster,

All that I want in all of this world is you.

You are the promised kiss of springtime

That makes the lonely winter seem long.

You are the breathless hush of evening

That trembles on the brink of a lovely song.

You are the angel glow that lights a star,

The dearest things I know are what you are.

Some day my happy arms will hold you,

And some day I'll know that moment divine,

When all the things you are, are mine!

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THE MOUNTAIN MAID

Dora Sigerson Shorter 1866-1918

Half seated on a mossy crag,

Half crouching in the heather;

I found a little Irish maid,

All in June's golden weather.

Like some fond hand that loved the child,

The wind tossed back her tresses;

The heath-bells touched her unclad feet

With shy and soft caresses.

A mountain linnet flung his song

Into the air around her;

But all in vain the splendid hour,

For deep in woe I found her.

"Ahone! Ahone! Ahone!" she wept,

The tears fell fast and faster;

I sat myself beside her there,

To hear of her disaster.

Like dew on roses down her cheek

The diamond drops were stealing;

She laid her two brown hands in mine,

Her trouble all revealing.

Alas! Alas! the tale she told

In Gaelic low and tender;

A plague upon my Saxon tongue,

I could not comprehend her. 

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ON A PAINTED WOMAN

Percy Byshe Shelley 1792-1822

To youths, who hurry thus away,

How silly your desire is

At such an early hour to pay

Your compliments to Iris.

Stop, prithee, stop, ye hasty beaux,

No longer urge this race on;

Though Iris has put on her clothes, 

She has not put her face on.

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