Quotes about holiday, page 14
What Country Shall We Go To?
What country shall we go to? For our holiday,
Shall it be in Europe, Asia, USA, or the islands, which way?
What if we do a world trip, go get some brochures and see,
Which will be the most interesting holiday for me?
Let's now think of U.k. Like Scotland, or Wales,
Then what about Ireland or isle of wight, see the yachts sails;
We could stay in London, go see on board a decker bus, visit the Queen,
There's plenty of great shops to try, and buy souveniers, is where I'll be seen.
Now catch a ferry across the Thames, into France, for a cake or two,
Try some frogs legs, to eat, see the Eiffel tower too;
Next will be Italy, see the olive vineyards Everywhere,
Try. To eat some great pasta, like spaghetti, n pizza if I dare.
Now what about to Vienna, hear the choirs sing,
Then travel to Venice, thru the streets in a condola they'll bring;
Back to Sweden, and to Austria, see each home so well built,
Go skiing in the mountains of Switzerland, if cold, I'll take the guilt.
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poem by Margaret Haig
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Pristine Beauty
The magic woven by Terry Pratchett in ‘Going
Postal' took my mind like a wave invading every
lonely space, filling me with a sense of delight
and the desire to keep on digging for meaning
Since I cannot be content with the mere fact that
I exist in the way Golems can, I have to assign
meaning to everything in order to prevent my
inner self turning from quiet and calm into
A raging torrent of existential dread and my spirit
from acquiring a waiflike quality, moving between
states of consciousness, too confused to choose
between moments of being to settle quietly
Long enough to enjoy the delight of existence as
escape from non-being, it took a while to drag my
mind away from a feeling of guilt about this holiday
and the concomitant fear that a short escape
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poem by Margaret Alice Second
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The Hermit's Sacrifice
From Rome's palaces and villas
Gaily issued forth a throng;
From her humbler habitations
Moved a human tide along.
Haughty dames and blooming maidens,
Men who knew not mercy's sway,
Thronged into the Coliseum
On that Roman holiday.
From the lonely wilds of Asia,
From her jungles far away,
From the distant torrid regions,
Rome had gathered beasts of prey.
Lions restless, roaring, rampant,
Tigers with their stealthy tread,
Leopards bright, and fierce, and fiery,
Met in conflict wild and dread.
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poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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Fire, Famine, And Slaughter : A War Eclogue
The Scene a desolate Tract in la Vendee. Famine is discovered
lying on the ground; to her enter Fire and Slaughter.
Fam. Sister! sisters! who sent you here?
Slau. [to Fire.] I will whisper it in her ear.
Fire. No! no! no!
Spirits hear what spirits tell:
'Twill make a holiday in Hell.
No! no! no!
Myself, I named him once below,
And all the souls, that damned be,
Leaped up at once in anarchy,
Clapped their hands and danced for glee.
They no longer heeded me,
But laughed to hear Hell's burning rafters
Unwillingly re-echo laughters!
No! no! no!
Spirits hear what spirits tell:
'Twill make a holiday in Hell!
Fam. Whisper it, sister! so and so!
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poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Helen In Hollywood
When she goes to Hollywood
she is an angel.
She writes in red red lipstick
on the window of her body,
long for me, oh need me!
Parts her lips like a lotus.
Opening night she stands, poised
on her carpet, luminescent,
young men humming
all around her. She is flying.
Her high heels are wands, her
furs electric. Her bracelets
flashing. How completely
dazzling her complexion,
how vibrant her hair and eyes,
how brilliant the glow that spreads
four full feet around her.
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poem by Judy Grahn
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Beautiful Crief
Ye lovers of the picturesque, if ye wish to drown your grief,
Take my advice, and visit the ancient town of Crieff;
The climate is bracing, and the walks lovely to see.
Besides, ye can ramble over the district, and view the beautiful scenery.
The town is admirably situated from the cold winter winds,
And the visitors, during their stay there, great comfort finds,
Because there is boating and fishing, and admission free,
Therefore they can enjoy themselves right merrily.
There is also golf courses, tennis greens, and good roads,
Which will make the travelling easier to tourists with great loads,
And which will make the bicyclists' hearts feel gay,
Because they have everything there to make an enjoyable holiday.
The principal river there is the Earn, rolling on its way,
And which flows from Loch Earn, and joins the silvery Tay
Above Newburgh, after a course of more than thirty miles;
And as the tourist views the scene with joy he smiles.
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poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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The Shepherd's Week (excerpt)
MONDAY, OR, THE SQUABBLE
Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, CloddipoleCUDDY
Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise,
Lest blisters sore on thy own tongue arise.
Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithesome swain,
The wisest lout of all the neighbouring plain!
From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies,
To know when hail will fall, or winds arise.
He taught us erst the heifer's tail to view,
When stuck aloft, that show'rs would straight ensue;
He first that useful secret did explain,
That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain.
When swallows fleet soar high and sport in air,
He told us that the welkin would be clear.
Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse,
And praise his sweetheart in alternate verse.
I'll wager this same oaken staff with thee,
That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.LOBBIN CLOUT
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poem by John Gay
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The Shepherd's Week : Monday; or the Squabble
Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, Cloddipole
Lobbin Clout.
Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake,
No thrustles shrill the bramble-bush forsake
No chirping lark the welkin sheen invokes,
No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes;
O'er yonder hill does scant the dawn appear,
Then why does Cuddy leave his cott so rear?
Cuddy.
Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween, my plight is guest,
'For he that loves, a stranger is to rest;'
If swains belye not, thou hast prov'd the smart
And Blouzelinda's mistress of thy heart.
This rising rear betokeneth well thy mind,
Those arms are folded for thy Blouzelind.
And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree,
Thee Blouzelinda smiles, Buxoma me.
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poem by John Gay
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Cobbler Keezar's Vision
The beaver cut his timber
With patient teeth that day,
The minks were fish-wards, and the crows
Surveyors of highway,-
When Keezar sat on the hillside
Upon his cobbler's form,
With a pan of coals on either hand
To keep his waxed-ends warm.
And there, in the golden weather,
He stitched and hammered and sung;
In the brook he moistened his leather,
In the pewter mug his tongue.
Well knew the tough old Teuton
Who brewed the stoutest ale,
And he paid the goodwife's reckoning
In the coin of song and tale.
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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Lady Of La Garaye - Prologue
RUINS! A charm is in the word:
It makes us smile, it makes us sigh,
'Tis like the note of some spring bird
Recalling other Springs gone by,
And other wood-notes which we heard
With some sweet face in some green lane,
And never can so hear again!
Ruins! They were not desolate
To us,--the ruins we remember:
Early we came and lingered late,
Through bright July, or rich September;
With young companions wild with glee,
We feasted 'neath some spreading tree--
And looked into their laughing eyes,
And mocked the echo for replies.
Oh! eyes--and smiles--and days of yore,
Can nothing your delight restore?
Return!
Return? In vain we listen;
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poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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