Quotes about psalm, page 11
How Grey The World Was
How grey the world was with its memories,
How dark even this gay room where the motes run!
How black these curtains, thick with murder cries,
These chairs, this floor with things slain in the sun!
'Twas here I strangled love, a year ago,
And hid it 'neath these pillows drenched in blood,
As a mad mother her sweet babe of woe,
Too strong to die, too fair, which shrieks aloud.
How black and bare and bitter the world was
Just yesterday! To--day, this room, dear Heaven,
What laughters fill it! what light footsteps pass!
See, the white chairs dance round me pleasure--driven,
And these sad pillows, where I wept, blab out
The news that you are here, in psalm and shout!
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Indian summer
O sweet, sad autumn of the waning year,
Though in thy bowers the roses all lie dead,
And from thy woods the song of birds has fled,
And winter, stern and cold, is hovering near;
Yet from thy presence breathes a holy calm.
The fervid heats, the lightning storms, all past,
A tender light o'er earth and sky is cast,
And all thy solemn voices chant a psalm.
Oh, Indian Summer, autumn of the soul,
That no returning Spring shall visit more,
Though all thy rose-hued morning dreams are o'er,
And phantoms dread stand threat'ning at the goal,
Yet are these days dear as e'en Summer knew;
These Sibylline leaves of life, so precious, since so few.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
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Crossing My Sea
I am crossing my red sea
And the waters are high
They're over and above me
And they make me cry.
The burdens are heavy
Gargantuan tasks
The challenges many
More than I can ask.
The staff that You gave me
Is this little pen
For writing is surely
What You intend.
I am crossing my red sea
And my hopes will be bright
As long as You're with me
My life is alright.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Colour poem: Purple
Purple is afraid
it scuttles into corners
on all fours
it reeks
it shrieks
and smells of old unopened rooms
it is the flickering eyelid
of an aging actress
and the veins
mapped on leaves
of frail plants
in nursing homes who suck thin air
Purple is chiffon dusk
compline and pale prayers
it is reading aloud
the twenty-third psalm
the noise of ragged breaths
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poem by Philippa Lane
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Mermaid song IV
GREENLAND, Greenland, is a bonny, bonny place,
Whare there’s neither grief nor flowr,
Whare there’s neither grief nor tier to be
seen,
But hills and frost and snow.
Up starts the kemp o the ship,
Wi a psalm-book in his hand:
‘Swoom away, swoom away, my merry old boys,
For you’ll never see dry land.’
Up starts the gaucy cook,
And a weil gaucy cook was he;
‘I wad na gie aw my pans and my kettles
For aw the lords in the sea.’
Up starts the kemp o the ship,
Wi a bottle and a glass intil his hand;
‘Swoom away, swoom away, my merry old sailors,
For you’ll never see dry land.’
O the raging seas they row, row, row,
The stormy winds do blow,
As sune as he had gane up to the tap,
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Submersible
Why art thou cast down, O my soul? Psalm 42
Down from twilight into dark at noon,
through darker, down until the black
could not be more devoid of star
or sunlight, o my soul, near freezing
in sub-photic stillness past
the fragile strands of glowing jelly
radiant with tentacles to sting,
and bioluminescent lures of anglers,
down where water beading on the cold hatch
overhead has sheathed in dewdrops
the titanium, past dragonfish
with nightlights set into their heads
and flanks, past unlit cruisers,
blackcod, owl fish, eelpout, skate,
where spider crabs, arms long as mine,
on creamy prongs drift floodlit
over the pillow lava, here,
our craft has taken us where no one
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poem by Brooks Haxton
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Empty Oracle
They, who in lofty pinnacles
Threaten us with devastation
Speak a high but empty oracle
Of Pride and self-confusion.
Their might and power has no famine
An acceptable situation
But these nations crumble within
May be having hallucinations.
For no one from the East or from the West
Nor from high above nor down below
Can cause destruction, lay us to rest
Except the One True God I know.
So am I scared of my country's demise?
With unshakable peace I'm ready to go
But this one question is the surprise
When they die, their outcome, do they know?
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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An excellence
Thy excellence
Thy glory story
Thy euphony cacophony
Psalm chant Universal
Booze blotto me in
Rhapsodic richness. It is nice to live I glorious past too and mind that history never repeats. Pick the threads from past weave it in present and present it for beautiful tomorrow...
On glorious past
Doubts never cast
Life is so precious and fast
Sky and horizons are also so vast
Only we are mortals and may not last
Live gracefully in presence
Understand its utility and essence
Not to forget past easily and hence
Just peep through and minutely glance
Bring drastic change in stance
Answer honestly to the call
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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Where Poppies Grow
Where poppies grow
There lies your foe
Who seeks a harvest
Of destruction.
The youth, his target,
The snare is set
As nations collapse
From within.
He will not fight
Through weapons of might
But slyly aims
At the core.
Young lives are crushed
By opium's brush
Burdened families
Decaying.
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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The Slave Singing At Midnight
Loud he sang the psalm of David!
He, a Negro and enslaved,
Sang of Israel's victory,
Sang of Zion, bright and free.
In that hour, when night is calmest,
Sang he from the Hebrew Psalmist,
In a voice so sweet and clear
That I could not choose but hear,
Songs of triumph, and ascriptions,
Such as reached the swart Egyptians,
When upon the Red Sea coast
Perished Pharaoh and his host.
And the voice of his devotion
Filled my soul with strange emotion;
For its tones by turns were glad,
Sweetly solemn, wildly sad.
Paul and Silas, in their prison,
Sang of Christ, the Lord arisen.
And an earthquake's arm of might
Broke their dungeon-gates at night.
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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