Quotes about relics, page 14
The Relic
When my grave is broke up again
Some second guest to entertain,
—For graves have learn'd that woman-head,
To be to more than one a bed—
And he that digs it, spies
A bracelet of bright hair about the bone,
Will he not let us alone,
And think that there a loving couple lies,
Who thought that this device might be some way
To make their souls at the last busy day
Meet at this grave, and make a little stay?
If this fall in a time, or land,
Where mass-devotion doth command,
Then he that digs us up will bring
Us to the bishop or the king,
To make us relics; then
Thou shalt be a Mary Magdalen, and I
A something else thereby;
All women shall adore us, and some men.
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poem by John Donne
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The Unfinished Book
TAKE it, reader, idly passing,
This, like other idle lines;
Take it, critic, great at classing
Subtle genius and its signs:
But, O reader, be thou dumb;
Critic, let no sharp wit come;
For the hand that wrote and blurred
Will not write another word;
And the soul you scorn or prize,
Now than angels is more wise.
Take it, heart of man or woman,
This unfinished broken strain,
Whether it be poor or common
Or the noblest work of brain;
Let that good heart only sit
Now in judgment over it
Tenderly, as we would read,--
Any one, of any creed,
Any churchyard passing by,--
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poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Hagar Shipley
Memories come
to harvest her days
Down through fallows
that somberly graze
The splendor tip tops
of the boondocks of youth
Etched in the silhouettes
of ghost with no truce
She stands always fighting
the odds of the house
Knowing home is never sweet
to the aged carcass
But a prison in waiting
to the dominoes of nature
Which she rebelled on the day
she was properly nurtured
In those ninety years dwelt,
she's no wise to sages
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poem by Kevin Patrick
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The Crystal (Part II of A True Experience)
the multi-storey perhaps three storey
grim and desolate building
-so dark and devoid of love-
struck me like the one i saw recently
in Wuthering Heights, the 1930s
black and white British film
as the dream came on,
something inside told me,
it was a building where such
a chilling tragedy did strike
shadows, echoes and a
menacing atmosphere overran
the rundown building
there was no door except
an opening to a dark interior
cold as caves
Wuthering Heights where memories
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Farewell! -- But Whenever You Welcome the Hour
Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain
Of the few that have brighten'd his pathway of pain,
But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw
Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you.
And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night;
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles --
Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice has murmur'd, "I wish he were here!"
Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;
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poem by Thomas Moore
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Boys Dream
Sleep’s statistical clutters quicken
desiderata of schedules wanting—
hegemony from standings trumpeting
triumph and trophy consummating…
in the arc of a completed pass…. A boys dream
scores symphony of self and other from the
argument of offense and defense—scores epic
antinomy from line and territory—scores world-song
from cosmic struggle directed by generals—
but fought in trenches by Trojans in armor
sheathed—and enshrined…by warrior-gods whose
jersey cerements retire in the Valhalla fame—the sacred
relics of ground offenses, of long-bombing air attacks—
defiance heroic to blitzes by defensive backs.
A boys dream lives by his helmet but dies
on the sidelines—and after a close game
when his father said “I’m sure glad they
they didn’t put you in”. A boy’s dream
dies in a shame that wouldn’t acknowledge
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poem by Todd Garland
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Memory's Mansion
In Memory's Mansion are wonderful rooms,
And I wander about them at will;
And I pause at the casements, where boxes of blooms
Are sending sweet scents o'er the sill.
I lean from a window that looks on a lawn;
From a turret that looks on the wave.
But I draw down the shade when I see on some glade
A stone standing guard by a grave.
To Memory's attic I clambered one day
When the roof was resounding with rain,
And there, among relics long hidden away,
I rummaged with heart ache and pain.
A hope long surrendered and covered with dust,
A pastime, out-grown and forgot,
And a fragment of love all corroded with rust,
Were lying heaped up in one spot.
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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Image In Lava
Thou thing of years departed!
What ages have gone by,
Since here the mournful seal was set
By love and agony!
Temple and tower have moulder'd,
Empires from earth have pass'd,
And woman's heart hath left a trace
Those glories to outlast!
And childhood's fragile image
Thus fearfully enshrin'd,
Survives the proud memorials rear'd
By conquerors of mankind.
Babe! wert thou brightly slumbering
Upon thy mother's breast,
When suddenly the fiery tomb
Shut round each gentle guest?
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Shadow Of Night
...
Fall, Hercules, from heaven, in tempests hurl'd,
And cleanse this beastly stable of the world;
Or bend thy brazen bow against the Sun,
As in Tartessus, when thou hadst begun
Thy task of oxen: heat in more extremes
Than thou wouldst suffer, with his envious beams.
Now make him leave the world to Night and dreams.
Never were virtue's labours so envied
As in this light: shoot, shoot, and stoop his pride.
Suffer no more his lustful rays to get
The Earth with issue: let him still be set
In Somnus' thickets: bound about the brows,
With pitchy vapours, and with ebon boughs.
Rich taper'd sanctuary of the blest,
Palace of Ruth, made all of tears, and rest,
To thy black shades and desolat{.i}on
I consecrate my life; and living moan,
Where furies shall for ever fighting be,
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poem by George Chapman
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My World Is Not Interesting After All
what you do not know yet
of course
is interesting and so
since you have not known
much of me
you find me
a subject
of interest
you keep on tracking me
like a path
that may lead you to
a certain
discovery, and you followed
me
religiously, and i
did not ask you to stop
or refuse
your insistence,
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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