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Quotes about slow, page 10

The Garden of Years

I

I have shut fast the door, and am alone
With the sweet memory of this afternoon,
That saw my vague dreams on a sudden grown
Into fulfilment, as I oft have known
Stray notes upon a keyboard fall atune
When least persuaded. I besought no boon
Of Fate to-day; I that, since first Love came
Into my life, have been so importune.
To-day alone I did not press my claim,
And lo! all I have dreamed of is my own!

II

I have shut fast the door, for so I may
Relive that moment of the turn of tide—
That swift solution of the long delay
That clothed with silver splendor dying day;
And, with low-whispering memory for guide,

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The City of Dreadful Night

Per me si va nella citta dolente.

--Dante

Poi di tanto adoprar, di tanti moti
D'ogni celeste, ogni terrena cosa,
Girando senza posa,
Per tornar sempre la donde son mosse;
Uso alcuno, alcun frutto
Indovinar non so.

Sola nel mondo eterna, a cui si volve
Ogni creata cosa,
In te, morte, si posa
Nostra ignuda natura;
Lieta no, ma sicura
Dell' antico dolor . . .
Pero ch' esser beato
Nega ai mortali e nega a' morti il fato.

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Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Sixth Book

THE English have a scornful insular way
Of calling the French light. The levity
Is in the judgment only, which yet stands;
For say a foolish thing but oft enough,
(And here's the secret of a hundred creeds,–
Men get opinions as boys learn to spell,
By re-iteration chiefly) the same thing
Shall pass at least for absolutely wise,
And not with fools exclusively. And so,
We say the French are light, as if we said
The cat mews, or the milch-cow gives us milk:
Say rather, cats are milked, and milch cows mew,
For what is lightness but inconsequence,
Vague fluctuation 'twixt effect and cause,
Compelled by neither? Is a bullet light,
That dashes from the gun-mouth, while the eye
Winks, and the heart beats one, to flatten itself
To a wafer on the white speck on a wall
A hundred paces off? Even so direct,
So sternly undivertible of aim,

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The Undying One- Canto III

'THERE is a sound the autumn wind doth make
Howling and moaning, listlessly and low:
Methinks that to a heart that ought to break
All the earth's voices seem to murmur so.
The visions that crost
Our path in light--
The things that we lost
In the dim dark night--
The faces for which we vainly yearn--
The voices whose tones will not return--
That low sad wailing breeze doth bring
Borne on its swift and rushing wing.
Have ye sat alone when that wind was loud,
And the moon shone dim from the wintry cloud?
When the fire was quench'd on your lonely hearth,
And the voices were still which spoke of mirth?

If such an evening, tho' but one,
It hath been yours to spend alone--
Never,--though years may roll along

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Gebir

FIRST BOOK.

I sing the fates of Gebir. He had dwelt
Among those mountain-caverns which retain
His labours yet, vast halls and flowing wells,
Nor have forgotten their old master's name
Though severed from his people here, incensed
By meditating on primeval wrongs,
He blew his battle-horn, at which uprose
Whole nations; here, ten thousand of most might
He called aloud, and soon Charoba saw
His dark helm hover o'er the land of Nile,
What should the virgin do? should royal knees
Bend suppliant, or defenceless hands engage
Men of gigantic force, gigantic arms?
For 'twas reported that nor sword sufficed,
Nor shield immense nor coat of massive mail,
But that upon their towering heads they bore
Each a huge stone, refulgent as the stars.
This told she Dalica, then cried aloud:

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Fragment Of A Sleep-Song

SISTER Simplicitie,
Sing, sing a song to me,
Sing me to sleep.
Some legend low and long,
Slow as the summer song
Of the dull Deep.

Some legend long and low,
Whose equal ebb and flow
To and fro creep
On the dim marge of gray
’Tween the soul’s night and day,
Washing “awake” away
Into “asleep.”

Some legend low and long,
Never so weak or strong
As to let go
While it can hold this heart
Withouten sigh or smart,

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Oooohhh You Sunshine

In the morning when you come,
I feel the heat from you.
I go to the window to see what you do,
And...
Oh Sunshine,
You seem to give it up slow and go!

Oooohhh,
Sunshine...
I wish you stick around more than you know.

Oh,
Sunshine.
You seem to give it up slow and go!

Oh Oooohhh,
You Sunshine...
You tease more in the Winter and it shows.

In the evenings when you set,

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The race is to the swift

Happy be or sad, like a long journey
Life is, and burden man aught to carry,
Heavy— let thine step be slow and steady,
That ye should stumble not in a hurry,
Old Buddhist wisdom, feeling its oats, said;
Be steady and firm like a mountain wall,
Deep like ocean, mild like moon to thine stead,
Echoed Jain thought; it matters none at all
How slow ye walk long as ye walk the way,
A Confucius creed more chaos did spread;
In too much of hurry, ye go astray,
Slow down to no movement, reach there un-sped,
Pondered Osho; the race, said Christ, not to the swift,
Shall thine goal gift; but world still races to the lift!
_____________________________________________ __________
This is a tongue-in-cheek kind of sonnet. Thoughts presented
are serious, but the underlying tone is light. All spiritual
wisdom advises men to move slow and steady to the goal, and
yet the world seems to be in a mad hurry; it's a rat race in
every field, as the Volta, just half of the last (14th) line suggests.

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Too Slow To Think

Step aside like the others,
After waking from a slumber.
Shake away your numbness from sleep.

Step aside like the others,
After waking from a slumber.
No need to jump ahead in front with a leap.

You need assistance to keep up with the rhythm.
And...
Your pace is just too slow to think you'll fit in.
The speed has sped to quicken.
And explanations are out of date,
For those trying to catch up much too late.

Where have you been?
To think that you can catch up running.
Where have you been?
To think that others for you wait.
Where have you been?

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Claret Pagoda in the Cerulean River

A slow waltz
In the crimson line
Of the dusk's horizon
Drifts me back
Into the cerulean river
Where I used to glide
In canoes with lovely people
Incarcerating myself;
My thoughts, my squalors,
My despairs, my bliss,
That no soul would understand
In a profound reclusion
That not a single soul
Ever understood.

In a slow waltz
Between my hands
And the grating oars,
And between the paddles
And the sporadic tides,

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