Quotes about feign, page 16
Nihilists and Naturists
O, you men and women of this world
have a strong taste for naturism.
The old is not gold; they are bold
to give pose to the camera,
not wearing even the tatters,
standing together as a crowd.
People from abroad come to ashrams
to learn to meditate and dedicate
of their body to the devouring sages.
These nudists be given free uniforms
or else they will sound a death-knell
to the life of the tailors and garment- designers.
If they don't come to terms at least to wear
a bikni or loin-cloth, the weavers will become
suicide bombers to kill these free celestials,
the replica of the ancient tribes.
The monks of some faith go nude
and there is a heavy turnout to get blessings.
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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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The Insecurities Of Aging...
the more you age
the more you keep things to yourself
old and new socks are mixed up in one wooden cabinet
somehow you are not using any
it is just the keeping for keeping sake
you are not thinking of any heir of any shoe
you begin to emphasize the importance of empty containers
how each must be filled
an empty cup must have coffee to its brim
an empty room must have someone to talk to
and empty road shall have at least one car making a dusty path
the empty stairs are too fearful to look at
how you hate an empty chair
it can make you sick if no one sits in there in another hour
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sleepless in Portugal
Late night television, a group of middleclass people
discussing art and its funding, they are so very polite
but only listen to their own voices; people, who make
a living writing about poetry which sells better than
writing it; nevertheless they are my only company this
long night, one of the men tries to control the erection
he gets when looking at the nice woman in red dress.
I have turned the sound down no need to hear what
they are say, gentlefolk but I do wish there had been
a scruffy artist there as well, to livening the proceeding
up, but often artistic people are not nice they have
no patience, not really in a group of bright people who
have gone to university, have a degree in something or
other, and work in the talking industry.
Commercial break, I turn the sound back up, a smooth
talking man has a cure all pill, tells us the medical
industry tries to ignore his wonder drug because it will
make it redundant. Artful mendacity there is an absence
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poem by Jan Oskar Hansen
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Ditty
(E. L. G.)
BENEATH a knap where flown
Nestlings play,
Within walls of weathered stone,
Far away
From the files of formal houses,
By the bough the firstling browses,
Lives a Sweet: no merchants meet,
No man barters, no man sells
Where she dwells.
Upon that fabric fair
"Here is she!"
Seems written everywhere
Unto me.
But to friends and nodding neighbors,
Fellow wights in lot and labors,
Who descry the times as I,
No such lucid legend tells
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poem by Thomas Hardy
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Ode To Sleep
Gentle divinity, how have I merited?
Whither, unfortunate wretch, have I strayed,
Thus of thy bounty to lie disenherited -
I alone whilst every other is paid?
Sleeping are cattle and birds without number,
Beasts of the wilderness rest in their lair;
Even the hills, as if weary, feign slumber,
Even the torment sighs soft in the air.
Lulled are the shuttering waves of the ocean,
Seas in the lap of the land lie at peace.
Only for me in monotonous motion
Day follows day, and there comes no release.
Moonlight & starlight & light of the morning
Seven times flit o'er my feverish cheek.
Once again Dawn's chilly hand offers warning.
Whither, oh whither for rest shall I seek?
Had I the eyes of an Argus, nor heeded
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poem by Pablius Papinius Statius
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Guilo
Yes, yes! I love thee, Guilo; thee alone.
Why dost thou sigh, and wear that face of sorrow?
The sunshine is to-day's, although it shone
On yesterday, and may shine on to-morrow.
I love but thee, my Guilo! be content;
The greediest heart can claim but present pleasure.
The future is thy God's. The past is spent.
To-day is thine; clasp close the precious treasure.
See how I love thee, Guilo! Lips and eyes
Could never under thy fond gaze dissemble.
I could not feign these passion-laden sighs;
Deceiving thee, my pulses would not tremble.
'So I loved Romney.' Hush, thou foolish one—
I should forget him wholly wouldst thou let me;
Or but remember that his day was done
From that supremest hour when first I met thee.
'And Paul?' Well, what of Paul? Paul had blue eyes,
And Romney gray, and thine are darkly tender!
One finds fresh feelings under change of skies—
A new horizon brings a newer splendor.
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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Common Lot
It is a common fate – a woman’s lot –
To waste on one the riches of her soul,
Who takes the wealth she gives him, but cannot
Repay the interest, and much less the whole.
As I look up into your eyes, and wait
For some response to my fond gaze and touch,
It seems to me there is no sadder fate
Than to be doomed to loving overmuch.
Are you not kind? Ah, yes, so very kind –
So thoughtful of my comfort, and so true.
Yes, yes, dear heart; but I, not being blind,
Know that I am not loved, as I love you.
One tenderer word, a little longer kiss,
Will fill my soul with music and with song;
And if you seem abstracted, or I miss
The heart-tone from your voice, my world goes wrong.
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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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To Caroline: Oh When Shall The Grave Hide
Oh when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?
Oh when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay?
The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow
But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day.
From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses
I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss;
For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this.
Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning,
Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage
On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning,
With transport my tongue give loose to its rage.
But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,
Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight;
Could they view us our sad separation bewailing
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight.
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Fret Not, My Beloved
Fret not, my beloved, for you are always with me;
This is my beauteous reality, not just a myth-be
Not there a moment whence thee are not present;
My darling, you are a gifting that is truly Heaven sent!
You occupy my thoughts, every single day and each solitary night,
Ne'er do I need want, to have you within my most humbled 'sight'!
Each dream I have seems to contain thee therein;
Upon awakening, I am brought to a reality, wherein
I long for thee still, as your presence is now passive-
Vexed not though, is my heart and its allegiant amative;
For, I am inspired not only by what now is, but
What is yet still, to be-for, no matter what
I simply must abide by the call of my heart and soul-
To be the mate of your's, their all-consuming goal!
You exist in the rainbow's hues, after a Summer rain;
That I am not now ever-enamored with thee, I could ne'er feign!
You are the figure I see, in Spring's billowed clouds,
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poem by Maurice Harris
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Epilogue
The day is done; and, lo! the shades
Melt 'neath Diana's mellow grace.
Hark, how those deep, designing maids
Feign terror in this sylvan place!
Come, friends, it's time that we should go;
We're honest married folk, you know.
Was not the wine delicious cool
Whose sweetness Pyrrha's smile enhanced?
And by that clear Bandusian pool
How gayly Chloe sung and danced!
And Lydia Die,--aha, methinks
You'll not forget the saucy minx!
But, oh, the echoes of those songs
That soothed our cares and lulled our hearts!
Not to that age nor this belongs
The glory of what heaven-born arts
Speak with the old distinctive charm
From yonder humble Sabine farm!
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poem by Eugene Field
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