Quotes about tether, page 11
Ad Finem Fideles
Far out, far out they lie. Like stricken women weeping,
Eternal vigil keeping with slow and silent tread—
Soft-shod as are the fairies, the winds patrol the prairies,
The sentinels of God about the pale and patient dead!
Above them, as they slumber in graves that none may number.
Dawns grow to day, days dim to dusk, and dusks in darkness pass;
Unheeded springs are born, unheeded summers brighten,
And winters wake to whiten the wilderness of grass.
Slow stride appointed years across their bivouac places,
With stern, devoted faces they lie, as when they lay,
In long battalions dreaming, till dawn, to eastward gleaming,
Awoke the clarion greeting of the bugles to the day.
The still and stealthy speeding of the pilgrim days unheeding,
At rest upon the roadway that their feet unfaltering trod,
The faithful unto death abide, with trust unshaken,
The morn when they shall waken to the reveille of God.
The faithful unto death! Their sleeping-places over
The torn and trampled clover to braver beauty blows;
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poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1898)
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For The Burns Centennial Celebration
JANUARY 25, 1859
His birthday.--Nay, we need not speak
The name each heart is beating,--
Each glistening eye and flushing cheek
In light and flame repeating!
We come in one tumultuous tide,--
One surge of wild emotion,--
As crowding through the Frith of Clyde
Rolls in the Western Ocean;
As when yon cloudless, quartered moon
Hangs o'er each storied river,
The swelling breasts of Ayr and Doon
With sea green wavelets quiver.
The century shrivels like a scroll,--
The past becomes the present,--
And face to face, and soul to soul,
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Move Fast, We've A Mountain To Climb
We're all citizens of nowhere on this planet Earth,
This is where we were born,
We can't dictate where our ship will berth
Or which continent we will adorn?
Our colour will determine how we survive,
As for gender it's much the same,
There'll be those who'll struggle to stay alive,
Those who respect and those who defame.
Our sexuality will influence some,
Why, only they can tell,
Will we be happy or eternally glum?
Will we enjoy life or be put through hell.
Religion will play an integral part,
Which one's right and which one is wrong,
The problem is they're all so far apart,
It's hard to say where you belong.
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poem by Bri Mar
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Beast and Man in India
They killed a Child to please the Gods
In Earth's young penitence,
And I have bled in that Babe's stead
Because of innocence.
I bear the sins of sinful men
That have no sin of my own,
They drive me forth to Heaven's wrath
Unpastured and alone.
I am the meat of sacrifice,
The ransom of man's guilt,
For they give my life to the altar-knife
Wherever shrine is built.
The Goat.
Between the waving tufts of jungle-grass,
Up from the river as the twilight falls,
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Ground Zero Has Risen From The Ashes
September eleventh two thousand and one,
The day our Twin Towers became hell,
Decent people throughout the world,
Watched as our familes fell.
All decent people came together as one,
That gesture did help ease our pain,
We swear as we watch the rising sun,
This will never happen again.
Your killing is futile you will never win,
Our democracies will never be defeated,
What you are committing is a mortal sin,
Which is both evil and totally conceited.
United we must all stand together,
Against these poisonous rashes,
There will be no end to our tether,
Ground Zero will Rise From The Ashes.
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poem by Bri Mar
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Donald Caird's Come Again
Chorus
Donald Caird's
come again!
Donald Caird's come again!
Tell the news in brugh and glen,
Donald Caird's come again!
Donald Caird can lilt and sing,
Blithely dance the Hieland fling,
Drink till the gudeman be blind,
Fleech till the gudewife be kind;
Hoop a leglin, clout a pan,
Or crack a pow wi' ony man;
Tell the news in brugh and glen,
Donald Caird's come again.
Donald Caird's come again!
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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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The Boundary Rider
THE BRIDLE reins hang loose in the hold of his lean left hand;
As the tether gives, the horse bends browsing down to the sand,
On the pommel the right hand rests with a smoking briar black,
Whose thin rings rise and break as he gazes from the track.
Already the sun is aslope, high still in a pale hot sky,
And the afternoon is fierce, in its glare the wide plains lie
Empty as heaven and silent, smit with a vast despair,
The face of a Titan bound, for whom is no hope nor care.
Hoar are its leagues of bush, and tawny brown is its soil,
In that immensity lost are human effort and toil,
A few scattered sheep in the scrub hardly themselves to be seen;
One man in the wilderness lone; beside, a primaeval scene.
Firm and upright in his saddle as a soldier upon parade,
Yet graceful too is his seat, for Nature this horseman made;
From childhood a fearless rider, now like a centaur he,
And half of his strength is gone when he jumps from the saddle-tree.
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poem by Thomas William Heney
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Christmas in India
Dim dawn behind the tamerisks -- the sky is saffron-yellow --
As the women in the village grind the corn,
And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow
That the Day, the staring Easter Day is born.
Oh the white dust on the highway! Oh the stenches in the byway!
Oh the clammy fog that hovers
And at Home they're making merry 'neath the white and scarlet berry --
What part have India's exiles in their mirth?
Full day begind the tamarisks -- the sky is blue and staring --
As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke,
And they bear One o'er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring,
To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke.
Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly --
Call on Rama -- he may hear, perhaps, your voice!
With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars,
And to-day we bid "good Christian men rejoice!"
High noon behind the tamarisks -- the sun is hot above us --
As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan.
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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To A Strange Lass
Dear strange lass,
I know you are there
Wafting with the southern gale
Coruscating a subtle enigma
Maybe, not too subtle
For when I see you
I'll know everything
Is laid in there
In your open palms
Withholding the erratic flight
Of a tacit butterfly,
And the stashed grandiosity
Among callow moths
And vapid star lights.
Do you have a patrician smile
Or a languid beam of wry?
Will you bend a soigné one
With a mammoth credence
And a hummingbird decadence?
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poem by Norman Santos
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There, You See, I Let You Go
There, you see, I let you go, just like that, open my hand
like milkweed, like dandelion, a grave full of ghosts
and let space take the parachutes and parasols,
chimney-sparks and fireflies in a gust of wind by a dark lake,
and I wonder if the stars, too, are a way of saying good-bye,
if the blood drapes its lanterns in black
after the light has fled
and latches the gate with a question, if
the sun dies in the apricot after it falls,
if the branch is sadder by the weight of one bird
or if the fruit it bears like tears is enough
to go on conducting the requiem of your absence,
because we are just an eye of water at the end of a leaf,
a match plummeting down a well,
a tiny fury of seeing that scalds the watershed
with the hiss of a cat, a feather of flame, and dies,
the dreary slag of a dwarf moon, a black, pitted skull.
And who would believe such a desolate thing,
was once a red bud on a paper stem, dreaming of flowers,
imagining the dawns that would come of its flaring,
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poem by Patrick White
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