Quotes about myrtle, page 11
To Alcithoë
IN your dim Greece of old, Alcithoë,
Death like a lover sought and crowned you young,
Between the olive orchards and the sea.
When they had twined your myrtle-buds, and hung
The stately cypress at your door, they said,
'Alcithoë is dead,
Before whose feet the flaming crocus sprung,
For whom the red rose opened ere the prime;
Those the gods love are taken before their time.'–
Ah! why did no one, watching you alone,
Snare your dead beauty in undying stone ?
The gold hair bound beneath its golden band,
The milk-white poppies closed within your hand;
That the harsh world a little space might keep
The last, still, exquisite vision of your sleep.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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The Sea Witch
ENDLESSLY fell her chestnut flowers,
Faint snow throughout the honeyed dark;
The myrtle spread his boughs to drink
Deep draughts of salt from the sea's brink,
And like a moon-dial swung her tower's
Straight shadow o'er her warded park.
From her calm coasts the galleons fled,
The fisher steered him further west,
No port was hailed, no keel came home
Across that pale, enchanted foam,
But by her roof the thrushes fed
And wandering swallows found their rest.
The shadows touched her tenderly,
The red beam lingered on her dress;
The white gull and the osprey knew
Her tower across the leagues of blue.
The wild swan when he sought the sea
Was laggard through her loveliness.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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The Survival
Securely, after days
Unnumbered, I behold
Kings mourn that promised praise
Their cheating bars foretold.
Of earth-constructing Wars,
Of Princes passed in chains,
Of deeds out-shining stars,
No word or voice remains.
Yet furthest times receive,
And to fresh praise restore,
Mere breath of flutes at eve,
Mere seaweed on the shore.
A smoke of sacrifice;
A chosen myrtle-wreath;
An harlot's altered eyes;
A rage 'gainst love or death;
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Yesterday's Flower
Yesterday's Flower
sunshine falls on potent flowers
like the nectar of youth's love
' blooms in emerald green ', held captive rose buds
dance to the music of the wind
life at first soft and sweet subtle
a whisper behind the floral scene
we're short lived as the fragrance arose
for the intoxication of seasons past
the celebration of flower's spring
worn thin life's very stem
dew drops hang so sparkling clear
and the musk of a honeysuckle nights
caress the moment and kiss good-by
youth the bloom of a new flower
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poem by Myrtle Thomas
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Spring Morning I
Thomalin.
Where is every piping lad
That the fields are not yclad
With their milk-white sheep?
Tell me: is it holiday,
Or if in the month of May
Use they long to sleep?
Piers.
Thomalin, 'tis not too late,
For the turtle and her mate
Sitten yet in nest:
And the thrustle hath not been
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poem by William Browne
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Aphrodite Metropolis
Harry loves Myrtle--He has strong arms, from the warehouse,
And on Sunday when they take the bus to emerald meadows he doesn't say:
"What will your chastity amount to when your flesh withers in a little while?"
No,
On Sunday, when they picnic in emerald meadows they look at the Sunday paper:
GIRL SLAYS BANKER-BETRAYER
They spread it around on the grass
BATH-TUB STIRS JERSEY ROW
And then they sit down on it, nice.
Harry doesn't say "Ziggin's Ointment for withered flesh,
Cures thousands of men and women of motes, warts, red veins,
flabby throat, scalp and hair diseases,
Not expensive, and fully guaranteed."
No,
Harry says nothing at all,
He smiles,
And they kiss in the emerald meadows on the Sunday paper.
poem by Kenneth Fearing
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Josh And Justin
I’m with you, Josh
Over here in Prospect Heights,
only a moron would clam
that Vanderbilt Avenue
without all the bars and restaurants
was better than Vanderbilt Avenue
now WITH all the bars and
restaurants.
Nighttime foot traffic is your friend.
And so are places to go.
Those guys in Gowanus
are choking their
neighborhood.
Now Josh, you’ve already got one
Jim Mamary restaurant in DP.
I moved from Ditmas Park to
Clinton Hill this past summer,
and have completely stopped
eating out.
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Soul Thirsteth for God
I thirst, but not as once I did,
The vain delights of earth to share;
Thy wounds, Emmanuel, all forbid
That I should seek my pleasures there.
It was the sight of Thy dear cross
First wean'd my soul from earthly things;
And taught me to esteem as dross
The mirth of fools and pomp of kings.
I want that grace that springs from Thee,
That quickens all things where it flows,
And makes a wretched thorn like me
Bloom as the myrtle, or the rose.
Dear fountain of delight unknown!
No longer sink below the brim;
But overflow, and pour me down
A living and life-giving stream!
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poem by William Cowper
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Olney Hymn 53: My Soul Thirsteth For God
I thirst, but not as once I did,
The vain delights of earth to share;
Thy wounds, Emmanuel, all forbid
That I should seek my pleasures there.
It was the sight of Thy dear cross
First wean'd my soul from earthly things;
And taught me to esteem as dross
The mirth of fools and pomp of kings.
I want that grace that springs from Thee,
That quickens all things where it flows,
And makes a wretched thorn like me
Bloom as the myrtle, or the rose.
Dear fountain of delight unknown!
No longer sink below the brim;
But overflow, and pour me down
A living and life-giving stream!
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poem by William Cowper
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Stanzas On The Late Indecent Liberties Taken With The Remains Of The Great Milton
'Me too, perchance, in future days,
The sculptured stone shall show,
With Paphian myrtle or with bays
Parnassian on my brow.
'But I, or e'er that season come,
Escaped from every care,
Shall reach my refuge in the tomb,
And sleep securely there.'
So sang, in Roman tone and style,
The youthful bard, ere long
Ordained to grace his native isle
With her sublimest song.
Who then but must conceive disdain,
Hearing the deed unblest,
Of wretches who have dared profane
His dread sepulchral rest?
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poem by William Cowper
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