Quotes about vintage, page 13
Judge Not, That Ye Be Not Judged
Long Wig up on his High Chair
stares at Long hair standing there
below him in the dock.
'I cannot deviate from the Law, '
he says, glancing at the clock.
'This is my decision.
Six months without remission.
Oh, and yes, with hard labour.'
'Decision' 'Remission' 'Hard Labour'
rang the echoes round the court
as each man turned to scrutinise his neighbour.
The Judge retired.
To dinners with people of the better sort.
To bottles of wine and vintage port.
To a Knighthood and, well, to cut it short,
to the Daily Telegraph.
On a day when, to his great surprise,
he saw his own obituary spread before his eyes.
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poem by Brian Taylor
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The Tommies lot
While general's drink their claret wine
In taverns far behind the lines
The English Tommy spills another wine
On Flanders table made from mothers pride
In front of guns in faltered stride
The sweet wine of youth seeps away
Dragging dreams of tomorrows men
Into broken hearts to be remembered by she.
A vintage lost to you and me
And, when autumns harvest came
The Tommy was the crop,
The Somme and Verdun is where life was stopped
And when winter froze the ground
The Tommy slept with reaper sound
Content to die with enemies damned
Caressed by yesterday's ghosts in this Flanders land
When loved ones sent letters from home
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poem by Steven Cooke
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A toast
There's wine in the cup, Vancouver,
And there's warmth in my heart for you,
While I drink to your health, your youth, and your wealth,
And the things that you yet will do.
In a vintage rare and olden,
With a flavour fine and keen,
Fill the glass to the edge, while I stand up to pledge
My faith to my western queen.
Then here's a Ho! Vancouver, in wine of the bonniest hue,
With a hand on my hip and the cup at my lip,
And a love in my life for you.
For you are a jolly good fellow, with a great, big heart, I know;
So I drink this toast
To the "Queen of the Coast."
Vancouver, here's a Ho!
And here's to the days that are coming,
And here's to the days that are gone,
And here's to your gold and your spirit bold,
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poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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08. Spring Wedding (charles and camilla)
love never grows old
like vintage wine
it acquires a taste,
richness and smoothness
that swirls on the stage
of a connoisseur's
discerning tongue
to lift the joy of his heart
as the days go by
only those with it know why
in the heartfelt smile
of Charles, Camilla
love shines bright as
the fresh spring foliage,
a sparkling rage over
the gnarled weather beaten
branches and twigs
every bloom and leaf
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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A Tomb in Tuscany
In Montepulciano fair,—
Long famous for that vintage rare,
Prized by the giver of the vine
Above all wine—
There dwelt a man whose years had taught him
To seek, beyond what wealth had brought him,
Something to give his transient name
A lasting fame.
"For lordly palaces," he said,
"Shall crumble; ay, and bastions dread,
And temples grave and gardens gay
Become as they;
Each vaunted image of my power
Shall perish like a wayside flower,
And like the hawk my hand hath fed
Lie waste and dead.
"Wherefore, ere yet my days be spent,
I will uprear a monument
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poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
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Deep sense
Deep sense of attachment
When mother hands over with some sweet comments
That can be anything ranging from jewels
To some invaluable and pearls
Sometimes they are sweet memories linked to the past
Their life may be nearing end very fast
Time may not left in their hand
So they may need to pass it on at the end
Their tone gets emotional
Their approach too becomes rationale
All goes swiftly with their change
But after all it is routine with the age
All parents may wish the same
They may have misery in life or fame
But at the end it matters less
When hard reality are on the way to face
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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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An Old Book Store
There is an old bookstore, on the other side of town.
The owner, a man of gentle disposition and kindly mold,
Changed an empty, cold, commercial store into a warm
And friendly shop.
With faith, hope and trust, he stirred a pound
Of old Americana with a cup of European flare.
Then, he added good old Texas charm to complement the mix.
The symmetry of shelves gives one a feeling of congenial Cordiality. Their polished woods, mahogany and oak, colored by The hand of age, exposes one to welcome warmth and shades of Soothing calm. It is a grand repository, holding silent urns of Moldered learning, side by side, with tomes of modern thought.
So come, indulge yourself and spend a guiltless hour seeking
Out a seldom-read old book found back in some secluded niche.
Imbibe the long, settled wine of knowledge poured from ancient
Literary ewers, filled with vintage scholarship.
Walk the paths of knowing, knowing they were walked
Before by half-remembered authors, with half-forgotten names.
Allow the spirit of the hour to pass unfettered through the Mind, where re-awakened literature supplies the substance of the Past and gives insight unto the future.
Rise to the superior society of your own thoughts,
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poem by Lynn W. Petty
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Barnfloor and Winepress
And he said, If the Lord do not help thee, whence shall I help thee? out of the barnfloor, or out of the winepress?
2 Kings VI: 27
Thou that on sin's wages starvest,
Behold we have the joy in harvest:
For us was gather'd the first fruits,
For us was lifted from the roots,
Sheaved in cruel bands, bruised sore,
Scourged upon the threshing-floor;
Where the upper mill-stone roof'd His head,
At morn we found the heavenly Bread,
And, on a thousand altars laid,
Christ our Sacrifice is made!
Thou whose dry plot for moisture gapes,
We shout with them that tread the grapes:
For us the Vine was fenced with thorn,
Five ways the precious branches torn;
Terrible fruit was on the tree
In the acre of Gethsemane;
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poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
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Rebecca
You spent your first few months, in the royal county of Meath,
A landscape so bountiful, of green pastures, majestic castles and leafy trees,
Born beautiful with deep brown eyes, like creamy milk chocolate spun so fine,
You glow like a moonlit night, with stars shining so bright,
No dark shadows, just Irish charm tied in shimmering satin bows,
Allurement with such delightful grace,
Like rare vintage lace,
Quality and class never dates.
Your granny, grandad and I made a cocoon for you,
Perfect child, thoughtful, kind, always something special in you, to find,
Grown up now, you live life at full throttle,
Travel a specialty, that you take on with such ease,
Standing out with your iconic style,
Always wanting to go that extra mile,
With your charming, honey touched smile,
No time to sigh, never thirsty for love's sweet melody.
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poem by Hazel Durham
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We All Went To Dorset Steam Fair
We all went to Dorset steam fair
In the year 2001.
The 33rd year of this wonderful fair,
And we loved it all and one.
The atmosphere and the energy
The smell and the feel and the noise.
The feeling of oneness and synergy.
All of us felt it, ourselves and our boys.
Seven of us went to the steam fair,
To participate, laugh and play.
Many things we saw there,
Although we went just for the day.
The fair for all of our boys was the best.
Something for one and all.
A very important fact, (I don't jest) ,
For our boys ranged from tall to so small.
Army trucks and steamers.
Engines of all size and type.
Vintage cars sporting streamers,
And motorbikes there for the hype.
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poem by Rosi Caswell
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