Quotes about sable, page 12
Thoughts Descend
Thoughts descend,
They come down
From the world unexplored;
In the forms of waves,
Purple, pink or black
Or winged birds:
Twittering sparrows,
Cooing doves or pigeons,
Or singing nightingales,
And sometimes they fall
Like stones hurling down.
Thoughts that soar near are captured
By the minds,
Some are spoken, some are penned
And become the record,
While the un-captured return behind
To the origin.
Innocent plain minds
Capture magnificent thoughts,
But the murky minds magnetize
[...] Read more
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Poems On The Slave Trade - Sonnet III
Oh he is worn with toil! the big drops run
Down his dark cheek; hold--hold thy merciless hand,
Pale tyrant! for beneath thy hard command
O'erwearied Nature sinks. The scorching Sun,
As pityless as proud Prosperity,
Darts on him his full beams; gasping he lies
Arraigning with his looks the patient skies,
While that inhuman trader lifts on high
The mangling scourge. Oh ye who at your ease
Sip the blood-sweeten'd beverage! thoughts like these
Haply ye scorn: I thank thee Gracious God!
That I do feel upon my cheek the glow
Of indignation, when beneath the rod
A sable brother writhes in silent woe.
poem by Robert Southey
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Ye Old Mule
Ye old mule that think yourself so fair,
Leave off with craft your beauty to repair,
For it is true, without any fable,
No man setteth more by riding in your saddle.
Too much travail so do your train appair.
Ye old mule
With false savour though you deceive th'air,
Whoso taste you shall well perceive your lair
Savoureth somewhat of a Kappurs stable.
Ye old mule
Ye must now serve to market and to fair,
All for the burden, for panniers a pair.
For since gray hairs been powdered in your sable,
The thing ye seek for, you must yourself enable
To purchase it by payment and by prayer,
Ye old mule.
poem by Sir Thomas Wyatt
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Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: I
When is life other than a tragedy,
Whether it is played in tears from the first scene,
In sable robes and grief's mute pageantry,
For loves that died ere they had ever been,
Or whether on the edge of joys set keen,
While all the stage with laughter is agog,
Death stepping forward with an altered mien
Pulls off his mask, and speaks the epilogue?
Life is a play acted by dying men,
Where, if its heroes seem to foot it well
And go light--tongued without grimace of pain,
Death will be found anon. And who shall tell
Which part was saddest, or in youth or age,
When the tired actor stops and leaves the stage?
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Sonnet To Disappointment
PALE disappointment! at thy freezing name
Chill fears in every shiv'ring vein I prove;
My sinking pulse almost forgets to move,
And life almost forsakes my languid frame.
Yet thee, relentless nymph! no more I blame:
Why do my thoughts 'midst vain illusions rove?
Why gild the charms of friendship and of love
With the warm glow of fancy's purple flame?
When ruffling winds have some bright fane o'erthrown,
Which shone on painted clouds, or seem'd to shine,
Shall the fond gazer dream for him alone
Those clouds were sable, and at fate repine?--
I feel, alas! the fault is all my own,
And ah, the cruel punishment is mine!
poem by Helen Maria Williams
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Ode
Our patriot sires are gone,
The conqueror Death lays low
Those veterans one by one,
Who braved each other foe; --
Though on them rests death's sable pall,
Yet o'er their deeds no shade shall fall.
No, ye of deathless fame!
Ye shall not sleep unsung,
While freedom hath a name,
Or gratitude a tongue; --
Yet shall your names and deeds sublime
Shine brighter through the mists of Time.
Oh, keep your armor bright,
Sons of those mighty dead,
And guard ye well the right,
For which such blood was shed!
Your starry flag should only wave
O'er Freedom's home, or o'er your grave.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
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A 'Mute Inglorious Milton
'O, I'm the Unaverage Man,
But you never have heard of me,
For my brother, the Average Man, outran
My fame with rapiditee,
And I'm sunk in Oblivion's sea,
But my bully big brother the world can span
With his wide notorietee.
I do everything that I can
To make 'em attend to me,
But the papers ignore the Unaverage Man
With a weird uniformitee.'
So sang with a dolorous note
A voice that I heard from the beach;
On the sable waters it seemed to float
Like a mortal part of speech.
The sea was Oblivion's sea,
And I cried as I plunged to swim:
'The Unaverage Man shall reside with me.'
But he didn't-I stayed with him!
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Sonnet To Byron
Byron! how sweetly sad thy melody!
Attuning still the soul to tenderness,
As if soft Pity, with unusual stress,
Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, being by,
Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die.
O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less
Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress
With a bright halo, shining beamily,
As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil,
Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent glow,
Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail,
And like fair veins in sable marble flow;
Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale,
The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.
poem by John Keats
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To Byron
Byron! how sweetly sad thy melody!
Attuning still the soul to tenderness,
As if soft Pity, with unusual stress,
Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, being by,
Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die.
O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less
Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress
With a bright halo, shining beamily,
As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil,
Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent glow,
Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail,
And like fair veins in sable marble flow;
Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale,
The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.
poem by John Keats
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Oh! Man Mend The Ways Old
I once in a dream flew into the world of future,
On the wings of fear, with the heart of agony,
And landed into a burnt zone,
Remotely resembled the world of man,
All wrapped in grimness of smoke.
I beheld men and women:
The remains of nations in rags,
All grubby with harrowed faces,
Impressionless eyes they had in the sockets.
They were at war against one another,
Not for high objectives nor to subjugate the Earth,
But for water, food and zones of fresh air.
They all carried the charred clubs,
Or the sable stones in their hands,
When they were at rest they shivered with cold,
Oh! Man mend the ways old.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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