Quotes about girth, page 10
Cradle Song Of The Cossack Mother
Slumber sweet, my fairest baby,
Slumber calmly, sleep—
Peaceful moonbeams light thy chamber,
In thy cradle creep;
I will tell to thee a story,
Pure as dewdrop glow,
Close those two beloved eyelids—
Lullaby, By-low!
List! The Terek o’er its pebbles
Blusters through the vale,
On its shores the little Khirgez
Whets his murdrous blade;
Yet thy father grey in battle—
Guards thee, child of woe,
Safely rest thee in thy cradle,
Lullaby, By-low!
Grievous times will sure befall thee,
Danger, slaughterous fire—
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poem by Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov
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To a Teacher of Teachers (in Paediatrics)
I, your pupil know your worth;
I, a teacher know your girth;
I, a doctor know your birth
Gave doctor-teachers, mirth!
I, a colleague can world tell,
‘You had made your students swell;
You had taught indeed so well;
You had tolled the teaching-bell! ’
We, your students thank you Doc;
You were key to our world’s lock;
When we did your door ev’r knock,
You gave ken unmatched by clock!
You, a star in our life’s sky;
You were one no one could buy;
You had made our minds so high;
This is truth, whole truth, not lie!
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poem by John Celes
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The Proof Of Worth
Though victory's proof of the skill you possess,
Defeat is the proof of your grit;
A weakling can smile in his days of success,
But at trouble's first sign he will quit.
So the test of the heart and the test of your pluck
Isn't skies that are sunny and fair,
But how do you stand to the blow that is struck
And how do you battle despair?
A fool can seem wise when the pathway is clear
And it's easy to see the way out,
But the test of man's judgment is something to fear,
And what does he do when in doubt?
And the proof of his faith is the courage he shows
When sorrows lie deep in his breast;
It's the way that he suffers the griefs that he knows
That brings out his worst or his best.
The test of a man is how much he will bear
For a cause which he knows to be right,
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poem by Edgar Albert Guest
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The Power Behind All
Rolling thunder is what men hear, as The Lord’s storm draws near,
With lightning piercing the sky, from the Lord, Who reigns on high,
From the clouds above the earth, one more storm, God shall birth,
Beyond all that man understands, it’s not nature, but God’s Hands.
Some folks call it an Act of God, when a disaster strikes this sod,
But it’s God providing abundantly, in all the rain and snow we see,
And as tornados come into sight, we see God’s Power and Might,
As that funnel scores the earth, with a channel of remarkable girth.
As hurricanes appear from nowhere, creating damage everywhere,
Even the unbelievers have a sense, there’s a coming recompense,
For this world, that has lost its way, living life in their godless way,
Glorifying not the Creator and Lord, but by many remains ignored.
Through that rain, ice and snow, God is revealed, not many know,
Revealed, so every eye will see, the works of The God of Eternity,
Just a sample of what’s to come, to be seen by all, not just some,
And everyone, some defiantly, will recognize, The God of Eternity.
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poem by Bob Gotti
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The Tourist Plan
‘We have to rule on the Tourist Plan, '
Said Rogan Inchalot,
‘If we haven't come up with an answer soon
Then what have we really got?
The budget's stuck into overdrive
And the costs are going to balloon! '
(The future hung in the balance
On that Saturnday afternoon!)
‘We've always kept it a secret, ' said
The man called Iron Girth,
‘So what do we want with the tourists,
All those imbeciles, from Earth! '
‘We need to collar the dollars, ' said
Minerva Astropine,
‘We're never going to develop, if
We sit around, and whine! '
‘Our secret isn't as safe today,
With all those satellites,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Huntsman's Horse
The galloping seasons have slackened his pace,
And stone wall and timber have battered his knees
It is many a year since he gave up his place
To live out his life in comparative ease.
No more does he stand with his scarlet and white
Like a statue of marble girth deep in the gorse;
No more does he carry the Horn of Delight
That called us to follow the huntsman's old horse.
How many will pass him and not understand,
As he trots down the road going cramped in his stride,
That he once set the pace to the best in the land
Ere they tightened his curb for a lady to ride!
When the music begins and a right one's away,
When hoof-strokes are thudding like drums on the ground,
The old spirit wakes in the worn-looking grey
And the pride of his youth comes to life at a bound.
He leans on the bit and he lays to his speed,
To the winds of the open his stiffness he throws,
And if spirit were all he'd be up with the lead
Where the horse that supplants him so easily goes.
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poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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Good Canadian Weather
A glimmer of spring recedes,
as winter rebounds towards furor
Sending off the cheerful malarkey
To be draped with an abstemious simmer
The rooftops bearing with tarmac
Become throttled with frosty garments
With bars made of ice, and walls made of snow
My sights claustrophobic and glacially narrow
And in the blink of an eye you'll hear my voice gripe
Muttering nonsensical adjectives of indolent tripe
But to be perfectly frank, this is good Canadian weather
The prelude of sallow lawns
Is disrupted by the Siberian sawn
Waylaying afterglows for lost summers
For rosy cheeks purchased from arctic dowers
I've traded my Hikers for Mukluks
Annoyed by the downgrade of gear
To shovel hours away, to keep contents at bay
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poem by Kevin Patrick
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Reverence
I saw the Greatest Man on Earth,
Aye, saw him with my proper eyes.
A loin-cloth spanned his proper girth,
But he was naked otherwise,
Excepting for his grey sombrero;
And when his domelike head he bared,
With reverence I stared and stared,
As mummified as any Pharaoh.
He leaned upon a little cane,
A big cigar was in his mouth;
Through spectacles of yellow stain
He gazed and gazed toward the South;
And then he dived into the sea,
As if to Corsica to swim;
His side stroke was so strong and free
I could not help but envy him.
A fitter man than I, I said,
Although his age is more than mine;
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poem by Robert William Service
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One Light: Three Primary Colors
Red is the colour of blood that flows in the body of all creatures given birth
Green is the colour of grass that like a carpet covers a lot of the soil of earth
Blue is the colour of sky that surrounds this world and is of an infinite girth
All three colours come from a Single Source having an Immeasurable worth.
Red is also the colour of danger and a symbol which indicates all to beware
Green is also the colour of the leaves that most of the plants and trees wear
Blue is also the colour of water that covers most of this world which is fair
Three colours are the original blend of all those others found in nature there.
Red is also the colour of anger, passion or pain that is expressed, felt and seen
Green is also the colour of something natural an indication of where it has been
Blue is also the colour of Infinity and the light glowing in a mind which is clean
And all three colours are shades of One Light the essence of all universal sheen.
Of all the three colours I like blue the most as it seems to be uniquely sublime
It speaks to me of loftier and deeper things that were experienced in my prime
It also represents the colour of the biggest phenomena known to man in time
Being a symbol of That in which all exists and from which all began to chime.
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poem by George Krokos
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Tomorrow Will Be A Good Day To Die
Buckskin brown eyes stare deep into the fire
Leathery brown faces turn up toward the sky
Sinewy brown muscles tensed up like wire
Tomorrow will be a good day to die
Shell necklace enclosed in long brown fingers
Aquiline nose streaked with red ocher dye
On his brave brown brothers, his gaze achingly lingers
Tomorrow will be a good day to die
Crackling mesquite, sparks rush into the night
Great horned Owl glides over, wind thru wings giving sigh
Wizened warriors look up, brown eyes reflecting firelight
Tomorrow will be a good day to die
Piebald and pinto ponies, ripping sparse desert fare
For pitiful provenance from land so desolate and dry
Long manes brushed by gentle strokes of sage scented air
Tomorrow will be a good day to die
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poem by David Whalen
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