Quotes about height, page 12
When A Sunflower Dies
It's sad to watch sunflowers die
That once were strong and bright
Their thick stalks drawing food from soil
To reach amazing height
Their faces once were giant stars
Their hearts an intense brown
Their sunny petals always smiled
And formed a golden crown
When stalks are cut and brought indoors
To parlors decked with grace
They bring its owners fleeting joy
With fresh and glowing face
Nobody cares when in a week
Life ebbs from each dry stem
Each petal shriveling and spent
To certain death condemned
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poem by Liilia Talts Morrison
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Advance – Come Forth From Thy Tyrolean Ground
ADVANCE-come forth from thy Tyrolean ground,
Dear Liberty! stern Nymph of soul untamed;
Sweet Nymph, O rightly of the mountains named!
Through the long chain of Alps from mound to mound
And o'er the eternal snows, like Echo, bound;
Like Echo, when the hunter train at dawn
Have roused her from her sleep: and forest-lawn,
Cliffs, woods and caves, her viewless steps resound
And babble of her pastime!-On, dread Power!
With such invisible motion speed thy flight,
Through hanging clouds, from craggy height to height,
Through the green vales and through the herdsman's bower-
That all the Alps may gladden in thy might,
Here, there, and in all places at one hour.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Look-Out Mountain
WHO inhabiteth the Mountain
That it shines in lurid light,
And is rolled about with thunders,
And terrors, and a blight,
Like Kaf the peak of Eblis-
Kaf, the evil height?
Who has gone up with a shouting
And a trumpet in the night?
There is battle in the Mountain-
Might assaulteth Might;
'Tis the fastness of the Anarch,
Torrent-torn, an ancient height;
The crags resound the clangor
Of the war of Wrong and Right;
And the armies in the valley
Watch and pray for dawning light.
Joy, joy, the day is breaking,
And the cloud is rolled from sight;
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poem by Herman Melville
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Before The Day Breaks
Its neither day nor night,
The sky is veiled with fading moonlight.
There is perfect peace and quiet,
Spiritual energy is at its height.
From the distance strains of Sufi music,
Aura in the air is mystic.
This is the best time to write,
As creative juices are at their height.
Just the sound of your breath moving in harmony,
Mind free of clutter, worry and acrimony.
You can hear the sound of pen
On the paper, as you write in a state of Zen.
I feel serene and sane,
And queen of my domain.
Slowly the night has withdrawn,
And ushered in the dawn.
Fresh ideas spawn
And I wander out to my lawn.
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poem by Mamta Agarwal
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The Last to Leave
The guns were silent, and the silent hills
had bowed their grasses to a gentle breeze
I gazed upon the vales and on the rills,
And whispered, "What of these?' and "What of these?
These long forgotten dead with sunken graves,
Some crossless, with unwritten memories
Their only mourners are the moaning waves,
Their only minstrels are the singing trees
And thus I mused and sorrowed wistfully
I watched the place where they had scaled the height,
The height whereon they bled so bitterly
Throughout each day and through each blistered night
I sat there long, and listened - all things listened too
I heard the epics of a thousand trees,
A thousand waves I heard; and then I knew
The waves were very old, the trees were wise:
The dead would be remembered evermore-
The valiant dead that gazed upon the skies,
And slept in great battalions by the shore.
poem by Leon Gellert
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We all must drink the water of life
Neutrality is the balance
between bad and good
life is water...
a balance between good and bad,
we all must drink the water of life!
Depth from depth
..the pain
length from length
..the struggle
mile to mile
.. the frustration
a bitter taste
a rotten smell
a water we must drink
yet a water needed for survival
Height to height
..the pleasure
reach to reach
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poem by Allen Steble
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Misunderstanding Mist Hidden Dangers
misunderstanding is a winding road
a dangerous path
when mist rises up from sea at night
each step taken on
lose rocky ground could be our last
heated fog still night summer mist rises
heavy vapour blanket load
hides ink black silken mountain height
hides beauty beacon stars
hides heaven creation ribbon glory sight
emotion memories erased landscape
separating known locations
shifting real places into pea soup blind
sense dependent maze mind
wrong choices reward sudden ego cord
haste anger wires how swiftly stupidity cast
about proud necks stiff reign
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Song Of Life
Sing not of Rest
For heart, or brain, or the strong soul’s emotion
Beneath the shadow of Eternal peace!
There is no rest in Nature or surcease
Of Law, and Labour, in unceasing motion.
Sing not of Rest!
Sing not of Peace
On earth, or in the realms beyond our dreaming!
Progress and Retrogression all things draw
Within the edict of Eternal Law.
Search for the Real which lies beneath the Seeming.
Sing not of Peace
Sing thou of Toil,
Of toil that moulds to-day the larger morrow!
Move with stout heart on Life’s great battle-field
And wear the motto “Progress” on thy shield.
All that is best is won through toil and sorrow.
Sing thou of Toil!
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poem by George Essex Evans
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1887
From Clee to heaven the beacon burns,
The shires have seen it plain,
From north and south the sign returns
And beacons burn again.
Look left, look right, the hills are bright,
The dales are light between,
Because 'tis fifty years to-night
That God has saved the Queen.
Now, when the flame they watch not towers
About the soil they trod,
Lads, we'll remember friends of ours
Who shared the work with God.
To skies that knit their heartstrings right,
To fields that bred them brave,
The saviours come not home to-night:
Themselves they could not save.
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poem by Alfred Edward Housman
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1897
Deep in my hidden country stands a peak,
and none hath known its name
and none, save I, hath even skill to seek:
thence my wild spirit came.
Thither I turn, when the day's garish world
too long hath vex'd my sight,
and bare my limbs where the great winds are whirl'd
and life's undreaded might.
For there I know the pools of clearest blue,
glad wells of simple sooth,
there, steep'd in strength of glacier springs, renew
the lucid body of youth,
there I alone may know the joy of quest
and keen delight of cold,
or rest, what time the night with naked breast
and shaken hair of gold,
folds me so close, that her great breath would seem
to fill the darkling heart
with solemn certainty of ancient dream
or whisperingly to impart
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poem by Christopher John Brennan
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