Quotes about relics, page 16
Reward for long service.
Reward for long service
English ode format.
The waterways of England are
Somewhat neglected nowadays
More fun than travelling by car
Is cruising down the waterways.
Although you cannot travel fast.
You can enjoy the scenery
Sheer pleasure from the first to last
Speed merchants though may stand aghast
They much prefer machinery
to relics from the distant past.
The narrow boats which they despise.
Are works of art in their own right.
Some motorists to their surprise
see waterways in new light.
The motorways designed for speed
To tell the truth are not much fun
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Fifteenth Sunday After Trinity
Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies,
Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew,
What more than magic in you lies,
To fill the heart's fond view?
In childhood's sports, companions gay,
In sorrow, on Life's downward way,
How soothing! in our last decay
Memorials prompt and true.
Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,
As pure, as fragrant, and as fair,
As when ye crowned the sunshine hours
Of happy wanderers there.
Fall'n all beside--the world of life,
How is it stained with fear and strife!
In Reason's world what storms are rife,
What passions range and glare!
But cheerful and unchanged the while
Your first and perfect form ye show,
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poem by John Keble
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Death
I have been gazing on the resting place
Of the cold sleepers of the earth—who trod
This busy planet for a little space,
Then laid them down, and took the verdant sod
To curtain the low cot wherein they slept,
Forgotten save by some few hearts that o'er them wept.
'T is strange—so lately they were living forms,
Breathing and moving; now the vernal sun
Looks down upon their silent graves, nor warms
One pulse to action—life with them is done;
And the turf blooms as quietly, as though
No forms of human mould were slumbering below.
And this shall be my lot!—a little while,
And I shall, too, lie down and be at rest,
In silence and in darkness; earth will smile
In spring's rich garniture, and o'er my breast
The wild-flower shed its sweets—but there will be
No gladness in bright hues or fragrant breath for me.
[...] Read more
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Power Is Rising!
They are sailing for distant shores
Trying to find a little more
Trying to escape the trail of industrial horizons.
Driven from our paradise where are we to turn?
Who will open up their doors to us?
Relics of the person I once was are floating
Endless dust desert trails, seeking a soul that they can trust
In re assembling the form I knew before the storming of my years.
The looking glass is beckoning bliss with the promise of beauty
The reflection is a hollow facade, a mask of light in falsity.
Contemplation
Meditation
Appreciation
Each is a road worth wandering as
We turn within the shadows of ourselves.
Staring into the flames of visions empowering,
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poem by David Lacey
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Agamemnon’s Tomb
Uplift the ponderous, golden mask of death,
And let the sun shine on him as it did
How many thousand years agone! Beneath
This worm-defying, uncorrupted lid,
Behold the young, heroic face, round-eyed,
Of one who in his full-flowered manhood died;
Of nobler frame than creatures of to-day,
Swathed in fine linen cerecloths fold on fold,
With carven weapons wrought of bronze and gold,
Accoutred like a warrior for the fray.
We gaze in awe at these huge-modeled limbs,
Shrunk in death's narrow house, but hinting yet
Their ancient majesty; these sightless rims
Whose living eyes the eyes of Helen met;
The speechless lips that ah! what tales might tell
Of earth's morning-tide when gods did dwell
Amidst a generous-fashioned, god-like race,
Who dwarf our puny semblance, and who won
The secret soul of Beauty for their own,
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poem by Emma Lazarus
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The Year I Almost Became A Catholic by Raul Voz
(translated from the Spanish by Warren Falcon)
The year I almost became a Catholic
5 stars rose from your breasts in Spring.
My nest was a sudden disturbance in blue.
A veil
a floating head
bleeding thorns
adorned your white throat.
I fled from my boat after one
long night of fishing only to
arrive ashore with torn nets
and apparitions upon my knees.
Without will my cursing ceased.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Burial of the Dead
I thought to meet no more, so dreary seem'd
Death's interposing veil, and thou so pure,
Thy place in Paradise
Beyond where I could soar;
Friend of this worthless heart! but happier thoughts
Spring like unbidden violets from the sod,
Where patiently thou tak'st
Thy sweet and sure repose.
The shadows fall more soothing: the soft air
Is full of cheering whispers like thine own;
While Memory, by thy grave,
Lives o'er thy funeral day;
The deep knell dying down, the mourners' pause,
Waiting their Saviour's welcome at the gate.—
Sure with the words of Heaven
Thy spirit met us there,
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poem by John Keble
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A Wren's Nest
AMONG the dwellings framed by birds
In field or forest with nice care,
Is none that with the little Wren's
In snugness may compare.
No door the tenement requires,
And seldom needs a laboured roof;
Yet is it to the fiercest sun
Impervious, and storm-proof.
So warm, so beautiful withal,
In perfect fitness for its aim,
That to the Kind by special grace
Their instinct surely came.
And when for their abodes they seek
An opportune recess,
The hermit has no finer eye
For shadowy quietness.
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poem by William Wordsworth
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The Ancestral Dwelling
Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America,
Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts of royal splendour;
These are the homes that were built by the brave beginners of a nation,
They are simple enough to be great, and full of a friendly dignity.
I love the old white farmhouses nestled in New England valleys,
Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feathering over them:
Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old-fashioned Howers,
A fan-light above the door, and little square panes in the windows,
The wood-shed piled with maple and birch and hickory ready for winter,
The gambrel-roof with its garret crowded with household relics, --
All the tokens of prudent thrift and the spirit of self-reliance.
I love the look of the shingled houses that front the ocean;
Their backs are bowed, and their lichened sides are weather-beaten;
Soft in their colour as grey pearls, they are full of patience and courage.
They seem to grow out of the rocks, there is something indomitable about them:
Facing the briny wind in a lonely land they stand undaunted,
While the thin blue line of smoke from the square-built chimney rises,
Telling of shelter for man, with room for a hearth and a cradle.
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poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Experience
Experience?
Those with it...
Have grossly diminished,
A quality of life.
Those with it...
Have not communicated,
On levels to diffuse conflicts and fights!
And their argument as to who has more of it...
Has spotlighted the inexperienced,
As being less dim, far less dull...
And actually a lot more bright!
If those with experience had any at all...
Why have they not chosen,
To prove or show they have it as an appetite?
The experienced have been trained,
In prestigious schools!
Granted they probably partied...
And cheated to receive degrees that honored fools.
Or pledged to be in cliques...
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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