Quotes about acres., page 13
Grave Sleeper’s Rest
I who slept... on a grave...
While of tender uncommon age.
Woke from sleep. With silent dead.
To turn mine eyes to heaven.
Tombstone lined neat ordered paths.
They stir not like living alive trees.
Moved not in brisk breath imbued breeze.
Moved not acres. Filled. Field stone piled hearts.
Avenues of possibilities hope. Buried through time.
Chimed their... lost dreams... through mine.
Memories preserved. Ghost imaged. Lives to speak.
Through impregnated. Imprints spectral. To speak.
Purpose dead love. Living requiem retro undefined.
Spoke pinnacles of stone, earth experience outlined.
Repentant city silence. Yearning. Dead so spoke.
Groaned heaven’s divine will. In hope aspiring longing.
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Eumerella Shore
There's a happy little valley on the Eumerella shore,
Where I've lingered many happy hours away,
On my little free selection I have acres by the score,
Where I unyoke the bullocks from the dray.
To my bullocks then I say
No matter where you stray,
You will never be impounded any more;
For you're running, running, running on the duffer's piece of land,
Free selected on the Eumerella shore.
When the moon has climbed the mountains and the stars are shining bright,
Then we saddle up our horses and away,
And we yard the squatters' cattle in the darkness of the night,
And we have the calves all branded by the day.
Oh, my pretty little calf,
At the squatter you may laugh,
For he'll never be your owner any more;
For you're running, running, running on the duffer's piece of land,
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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Cluttered
I've been thinking in circles and triangles
trying to help you figure out the feelings
mine were already figurative to you, but
added yourself, subtracted him and divided by me
equation would've been balanced for the time being
Oh! But to you, my love was just, an aura
never seen before, a touch never felt in the heart.
it was there even before the time itself existed
nothing to change about it, turn around,
crawl back or change myself in that case
More of that or lesser self-respect
then enter the heroine, not the drug
but in a way you were, I was addicted
I wasn't the villain, not the hero either
not in your eyes at least, sigh! Smiles
I watched it all burn upon my inner eye
triangles and squares, feets and acres,
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poem by Pamuditha Zen Anjana
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The Sermon of the Birds
I was clearing thirty or forty acres once
Out in the western range near Nightcap Mountain.
And as I was working, I heard a gathering of the crows
Singing out in a jungle gully. Their clamorous cries
Drawed the attention of all the other birds.
Jackass and butcher-bird, soldier-bird, sparrow-bird,
Scrub-robin, magpie, and the black and white cockatoo,
They all flew down to the crows in the jungle-gully.
And I followed after their clamour, and in the midst
Of all the splendid excitement of the birds
I heard one feller was singing above them all.
It was the lyre-bird, the mimic of all the scrub,
And they held this beautiful sermon or half an hour.
The birds would stop and listen a while but still
That beautiful voice, the lyre-bird, would keep on singing
And draw then and join them all to a chorus again.
And as I stood there and listened, the Scriptures was
Hitting me all the time. The sermon seemed
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poem by Roland Robinson
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Cotton and Corn
Said Cotton to Corn, t'other day,
As they met and exchang'd salute--
(Squire Corn in his carriage so gay,
Poor Cotton, half famish'd on foot):
"Great Squire, if it isn't uncivil
To hint at starvation before you,
Look down on a poor hungry devil,
And give him some bread, I implore you!"
Quoth Corn, then, in answer to Cotton,
Perceiving he meant to make free --
"Low fellow, you've surely forgotten
The distance between you and me!
To expect that we, Peers of high birth,
Should waste our illustrious acres,
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poem by Thomas Moore
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Written At Paris, 1700. In The Beginning Of Robe's Geography
Of all that William rules, or robe
Describes, great Rhea, of thy globe,
When or on posthorse or in chaise,
With much expense and little ease,
My destin'd miles I shall have gone,
By Thames, or Maese, by Po, or Rhone,
And found no foot of earth my own;
Great Mother, let me once be able
To have a garden, house, and stable,
That I may read, and ride, and plant,
Superior to desire or want;
And as health fails, and years increase,
Sit down and think, and die in peace.
Oblige thy favourite undertakers
To throw me in but twenty acres;
This number sure they may allow,
For pasture ten, and ten for plough;
'Tis all that I would wish or hope,
For me, and John, and Nell, and Crop.
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poem by Matthew Prior
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The thick golden stream of honey took so long
1
The thick golden stream of honey took so long
To pour, our host had time to say:
'Here in the dismal Taurides, where fate has brought us,
We don't get bored at all' -- and she looked over her shoulder.
2
The services of Bacchus everywhere, as if on earth
Were only guards and dogs. You go along, you notice no one --
Like heavy barrels, the peaceful days roll by:
Far off. Voices in a hut: you cannot understand, nor reply.
3
After tea, we went out in the huge brown garden,
The dark blinds were lowered like eyelashes.
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poem by Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
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The Broken-Teapot
Mum's bit of egg money on the mantelpiece
In the broken teapot in the olden days,
Hardly earned and hoarded there,
Much content afforded there
Long before inspectors came and bureaucratic ways.
But science by the barn-door rules the farmer's lot
And Mum's bit of egg-money dwindles in the pot.
Ever since the first years this was mother's perquisite,
Eggs daily gathered by the old barn door,
From the stable gathered in,
From the shed and fodder bin,
Carted in and traded at the small town store;
Gathered from the wayward hen laying far afield
As the new-cleared acres gave their golden yield.
Long it was a stand-by while the kids were little ones
Mum's broken teapot resting on the shelf
Some print to make a dress for Lil,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Seventy Two
The secret hands removed the lids,
Curtains between the vision and the eyes,
And made a show of eternal reality.
The rectangular cloud-like substance,
Extended from the East to the North,
Stretched in the sky in thousands of acres,
Incredibly white, and glaring bright,
The most appealing to the parched hearts,
Cast celestial delight, pleasing to recall.
Though thousands of miles was far away,
Yet beheld I the spectacle vividly,
The phenomenon hidden to the eyes carnal.
I saw the Seventy Two clad,
In the bright gaily dresses, radiant costumes,
Riding on the white swift flying horses,
In cheerfulness unknown to the temporal world,
In the glaring brilliance the seemed merged,
Like a reflection in the huge mirror,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Rocky Acres
This is a wild land, country of my choice,
With harsh craggy mountain, moor ample and bare.
Seldom in these acres is heard any voice
But voice of cold water that runs here and there
Through rocks and lank heather growing without care.
No mice in the heath run nor no birds cry
For fear of the dark speck that floats in the sky.
He soars and he hovers rocking on his wings,
He scans his wide parish with a sharp eye,
He catches the trembling of small hidden things,
He tears them in pieces dropping from the sky:
Tenderness and pity the land will deny,
Where life is but nourished from water and rock,
A hardy adventure, full of fear and shock.
Time has never journeyed to this lost land,
Crakeberries and heather bloom out of date,
The rocks jut, the streams flow singing on either hand,
Careless if the season be early or late.
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poem by Robert Graves
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