Quotes about roar, page 12
Prometheus Amid Hurricane And Earthquake
Earth is rocking in space!
And the thunders crash up with a roar upon roar,
And the eddying lightnings flash fire in my face,
And the whirlwinds are whirling the dust round and round--
And the blasts of the winds universal leap free
And blow each other upon each, with a passion of sound,
And æther goes mingling in storm with the sea!
Such a curse on my head, in a manifest dread,
From the hand of your Zeus has been hurtled along!
O my mother's fair glory! O Æther, enringing
All eyes with the sweet common light of thy bringing,
Dost see how I suffer this wrong?
poem by Aeschylus
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The sounds of darkness
Darkness, it comes every night
The sounds come with it.
There are crickets humming,
And twigs falling making a thud on the roof.
The roar of a train, the rush of the creek,
The tap, tap, tap of the keyboard typing.
The buzz of my laptop and the sounds of the TV.
The soft, slow howl of the wind.
The sounds of darkness may differ with seasons
But no matter what time or day
The sounds will come.
The roar of a train, the rush of the creek,
The tap, tap, tap of the keyboard typing.
The buzz of my laptop and the sounds of the TV.
The soft, slow howl of the wind
poem by Maddie Shanahan
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Sonnet to Ocean
Shall I rebuke thee, Ocean, my old love,
That once, in rage, with the wild winds at strife,
Thou darest menace my unit of a life,
Sending my clay below, my soul above,
Whilst roar'd thy waves, like lions when they rove
By night, and bound upon their prey by stealth!
Yet didst thou n'er restore my fainting health?—
Didst thou ne'er murmur gently like the dove?
Nay, dost thou not against my own dear shore
Full break, last link between my land and me?—
My absent friends talk in thy very roar,
In thy waves' beat their kindly pulse I see,
And, if I must not see my England more,
Next to her soil, my grave be found in thee!
poem by Thomas Hood
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To George Sand: A Desire
THOU large-brained woman and large-hearted man,
Self-called George Sand ! whose soul, amid the lions
Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defiance
And answers roar for roar, as spirits can:
I would some mild miraculous thunder ran
Above the applauded circus, in appliance
Of thine own nobler nature's strength and science,
Drawing two pinions, white as wings of swan,
From thy strong shoulders, to amaze the place
With holier light ! that thou to woman's claim
And man's, mightst join beside the angel's grace
Of a pure genius sanctified from blame
Till child and maiden pressed to thine embrace
To kiss upon thy lips a stainless fame.
poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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You Speak I Answer
Sometimes, love is a very quiet breeze
Gently swaying May cherry blossom boughs.
Pink cotton candy drifts cool waves and tease,
Softening paired footfalls on stony paths
To forgiving ground, where, as if by chance,
Eyes meet, lock and know the hearts tidal roar
Of secret aching need in one seismic glance.
Sometimes, one misses quiet breezes,
and does not see the swaying blossoms.
And does not taste the cotton candy
until the roar of Tsunami, urgently knocks,
and joins, as if by chance, the aching hearts.
And eyes that meet are hands that grasp,
and closeness locks the hearts in one,
where time and tide respectfully
will stand back for eternity.
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Accordance
He who with bold and skilful hand sweeps o'er
The organ-keys of some cathedral pile,
Flooding with music, vault, and nave, and aisle,
Though on his ear falls but a thunderous roar.
In the composer's lofty motive free,
Knows well that all that temple, vast and dim,
Thrills to its base with anthem, psalm, and hymn,
True to the changeless laws of harmony.
So he who on these clanging chords of life,
With firm, sweet touch plays the Great Master's score,
Of truth, and love, and duty, evermore,
Knows, too, that far beyond this roar and strife,
Though he may never hear, in the true time,
These notes must all accord in symphonies sublime.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Cold Winds Of January
Last night in my dreams i did hear the winds roar
Above the old high fields of far Claramore
A cold Winter moon crept behind clouds to hide
And on the bleak hillside the hungry fox cried
And a bird so distinctive even in his wild cry
The screech of the barn owl echoed in the sky
A Winter's night in January by old Clara hill
The howling of the wind drowned out the babble of the rill
That towards the big river downland ever does flow
Through many a field and by many a hedgerow
Old jack frost of January is in the cold air
And the hedgerows and deciduous trees of their foliage are bare
And the cold winds of January in the dead of night roar
Above the old bare fields of high Claramore.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Sampson's Lion
The lion that on Sampson roared,
And thirsted for his blood;
With honey afterwards was stored,
And furnished him with food.
Believers, as they pace along,
With many lions meet;
But gather sweetness from the strong,
And from the eater, meat.
The lions rage and roar in vain,
For Jesus is their shield;
Their losses prove a certain gain,
Their troubles comfort yield.
The world and Satan join their strength,
To fill their souls with fears;
But crops of joy they reap at length,
From what they sow in tears.
[...] Read more
poem by John Newton
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To Donneen
When first you came to London Town, Donneen,
Just five years old,
I said—'He'll ask for marble halls, and streets
All paved with gold!'
I thought—'He'll weep, so stricken with amaze,
To hear the roar
Of trampling hoofs, of rushing feet that go
Our way before.'
I said—'He'll fear the throbbing engine's shriek,
The shaking path,
The pushing crowd, the city's comrade cries
Of joy, of wrath.'
And when we stood to hear the mighty heart
Of London Town,
I saw your angry cheek and knew a tear
Had threatened down.
'Why weep,' I whispered by your red gold head,
'Dearest of boys?'
'I cannot hear my new shoes creak,' you said,
[...] Read more
poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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Patroling Barnegat
WILD, wild the storm, and the sea high running,
Steady the roar of the gale, with incessant undertone muttering,
Shouts of demoniac laughter fitfully piercing and pealing,
Waves, air, midnight, their savagest trinity lashing,
Out in the shadows there milk-white combs careering,
On beachy slush and sand spirts of snow fierce slanting,
Where through the murk the easterly death-wind breasting,
Through cutting swirl and spray watchful and firm advancing,
(That in the distance! is that a wreck? is the red signal flaring?)
Slush and sand of the beach tireless till daylight wending, 10
Steadily, slowly, through hoarse roar never remitting,
Along the midnight edge by those milk-white combs careering,
A group of dim, weird forms, struggling, the night confronting,
That savage trinity warily watching.
poem by Walt Whitman
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