Quotes about swoop, page 13
Fight With A Bear
The following appeared in Truth in the form of a prose tale of
considerable length. We have concentrated the essence
thereof into the few verses below. It is a tale of the
Canadian North-West, during the times of the Hudson
Bay Company's rule.
Two youths, employed at the fur fort,
Resolved to have half-day of sport ;
From Jasper House, in the far north,
For game, they joyous issued forth.
The factor of the Hudson Bay
Granted them a few hours' play,
And it was in cold winter time,
When thick on lake was glassy rime ;
But beneath, o'er all their route,
They saw below big speckled trout.
With hatchet, ice they did clear
And the beauteous trout did spear,
For they were longing for a dish
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poem by James McIntyre
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If You Couldn't Get It Right The First Time
Some say redemption is easy.
But when your hands are so bloody.
How can you just wash them clean?
Like it never happen.
Completely innocent you say.
Then where was your vigilance while it was happening?
Ignorance is a excuse without reason.
We should never accept it with a hand shake and a smile.
Bliss is only temporary.
Consequences must be faced.
Pain you must taste, before it can be truly felt.
Some say we only have to live with the hands we are dealt.
But we trade these cards for better ones all the time.
For some it requires hard work.
Others they bully people for them.
And yet even more stoop to thievery and manipulation.
A prize sits upon the highest roof top.
All you have to do is push this other guy off to get it.
Can you do it?
All for something a little easier.
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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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I'm Scared Of It All
I'm scared of it all, God's truth! so I am;
It's too big and brutal for me.
My nerve's on the raw and I don't give a damn
For all the "hoorah" that I see.
I'm pinned between subway and overhead train,
Where automobillies swoop down:
Oh, I want to go back to the timber again --
I'm scared of the terrible town.
I want to go back to my lean, ashen plains;
My rivers that flash into foam;
My ultimate valleys where solitude reigns;
My trail from Fort Churchill to Nome.
My forests packed full of mysterious gloom,
My ice-fields agrind and aglare:
The city is deadfalled with danger and doom --
I know that I'm safer up there.
I watch the wan faces that flash in the street;
All kinds and all classes I see.
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poem by Robert William Service
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The Influenza
Oh how shall I its deeds recount
Or measure the untold amount
Of ills that it has done?
From China’s bright celestial land
E’en to Arabia’s thirsty sand
It journeyed with the sun.
O’er miles of bleak Siberia’s plains
Where Russian exiles toil in chains
It moved with noiseless tread;
And as it slowly glided by
There followed it across the sky
The spirits of the dead.
The Ural peaks by it were scaled
And every bar and barrier failed
To turn it from its way;
Slowly and surely on it came,
Heralded by its awful fame,
Increasing day by day.
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poem by Winston Churchill (1890)
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To Arms!
World! to arms!
Do you shrink?
What! shrink when the hoofs of the Cossack are crushing
The bosom of mother, the tonsure of priest,
And the youth of a nation, pain-maddened, is rushing
On visible doom, as to tourney or feast?
When the savagest hell-hounds that ever existed
Are hunting the tender and brave of our race,
And the lash of the insolent Tartar is twisted
With mock of defiance, and cracked in your face-
Do you shrink?
World! to arms!
Do you shrink, gallant France, when the blood of a nation,
Ne'er stinted for you, for itself flows in vain?
Aroused by the might of a grand inspiration,
Avenge with your war-clang the souls of the slain.
If you shrink, may you never know ending or respite
To strife internecine and factional hate,
Except when the hand of liberticide despot
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poem by Alfred Austin
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The Tragic Bliss
The tragic bliss of having loved you
like a lost generation.
The farcical sorrow
of the one that was found
like the other shoe
of a crystal slipper that didn't fit.
What was lost?
What was recovered?
Nothing's lost until it asks where it's going.
I was in love with the knower.
But you loved the knowing.
Everything was as it was.
Only the perishable growing.
Only the stars to clarify
the misgivings of oblivion.
Only you telling me
like a leftover voice in my head
that's been gathering dust in the attic
it's one thing to do what you want to do
it's another to do what you must.
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poem by Patrick White
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A Te Deum
Now let me praise the Lord,
The Lord, the Maker of all!
I will praise Him on timbrel and chord;
Will praise Him, whatever befall.
For the Heavens are His, and the Earth,
His are the wind and the wave;
His the begetting, the birth,
And His the jaws of the grave.
'Tis He that hath made us, not we;
We were dust and slime of the ground:
He breathed on the dark, and we see;
He flooded the silence with sound.
Shall I pick and choose for His praise?
Shall I thank Him for good, not ill?
He is the Ancient of Days,
And He hews the rocks as He will.
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poem by Alfred Austin
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The Fog
The fog slunk down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow,
Southwardly shifting, far inshore, so never a man might know
How the sea it trod with feet soft-shod, watching the distance dim.
Where the fishing-fleet to the eastward beat, white dots on the ocean’s rim.
Feeling the sands with its furtive hands, fingering cape and cove.
Where the sweet salt smells of the nearer swells up the sloping hillside rove;
Where the whimpering sea-gulls swoop and soar, and the great king-herons go,
The fog slunk down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow!
Then a stillness fell on crag and cliff, on beach and breaker fell,
As the sea-breeze brought on its final whiff the note of a distant bell,
One faint, far sound, and the fog unwound its mantle across the lea.
Joined hand in hand with a wind from land, and the twain went out to sea.
And the wind that rose spoke soft, of those who watch on the cliffs at dawn,
And the fog’s white lips, of sinking ships where the tortured tempests spawn,
As, each to each, they told once more such things as fishers know,
When the fog slinks down from Labrador, stealthy, sure, and slow !
Oh, the wan, white hours go limping by, when that pall comes in between
The great, blue bell of the cloudless sky and the ocean’s romping green!
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poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1901)
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Ice Queen
The Ice Queen in her icy world,
With icy fingers tightly curled,
Around sweet fairy in her gilded cage,
No escape the Ice Queen's rage.
The beginning of a fairy tale no lest,
A fable, a fantasy at best,
A love story to be told,
If I may be so bold.
Now as the story goes,
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poem by Philo Yan
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On Seeing A Pupil Of Kung-sun Dance The Chien-ch`i
On the nineteenth day of the tenth month of the second year of Ta-li (15 November 767), in the residence of Yuan Ch`ih, Lieutenant-Governor of K`uei-chou, I saw Li Shih-er-niang of Lin-ying dance the chien-ch`i.
Impressed by the brilliance and thrust of her style, I asked her whom she had studied under. ``I am a pupil of Kung-sun'', was the reply.
I remember in the fifth year of K`ai-yuan (717) when I was still a little lad seeing Kung-sun dance the chien-ch`i
and the hun-t`o at Yen-ch`eng. For purity of technique and self-confident attack she was unrivaled in her day.
From the ``royal command performers'' and the ``insiders'' of the Spring Garden and Pear Garden schools in the palace down to the ``official call'' dancers outside, there was no one during the early years of His Sagely Pacific and Divinely Martial Majesty who understood this dance as she did. Where now is that lovely figure in its gorgeous costume? Now even I am an old, white-haired man; and this pupil of hers is well past her prime.
Having found out about the pupil's antecedents, I now realized that what I had been watching was a faithful
reproduction of the great dancer's interpretation. The train of reflections set off by this discovery so moved me
that I felt inspired to compose a ballad on the chien-ch`i.
Some years ago, Chang Hsu, the great master of the ``grass writing'' style of calligraphy, having several times
seeen Kung-sun dance the West River chien-ch`i at Yeh-hsein, afterwards discovered, to his immense
gratification, that his calligraphy had greatly improved. This gives one some idea of the sort of person Kung-sun
was.
In time past there was a lovely woman called Kung-sun, whose chien-ch`i astonished the whole world. Audiences numerous as the hills watched awestruck as she danced, and, to their reeling senses, the world seemed to go on rising and falling, long after she had finished dancing. Her flashing swoop was like the nine suns falling, transfixed by the Mighty Archer's arrows; her
soaring flight like the lords of the sky driving their dragon teams aloft; her advance like the thunder gathering up its dreadful rage; her stoppings like seas and rivers locked in the cold glint of ice.
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