Quotes about roar, page 16
The Wind Of March
Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing
Under the sky's gray arch;
Smiling, I watch the shaken elm-boughs, knowing
It is the wind of March.
Between the passing and the coming season,
This stormy interlude
Gives to our winter-wearied hearts a reason
For trustful gratitude.
Welcome to waiting ears its harsh forewarning
Of light and warmth to come,
The longed-for joy of Nature's Easter morning,
The earth arisen in bloom.
In the loud tumult winter's strength is breaking;
I listen to the sound,
As to a voice of resurrection, waking
To life the dead, cold ground.
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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Dover Beach
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits;—on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægæan, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
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poem by Matthew Arnold (1867)
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The Prisoner
I lash and writhe against my prison bars,
And watch with sullen eyes the gaping crowd . .
Give me my freedom and the burning stars,
The hollow sky, and crags of moonlit cloud!
Once I might range across the trackless plain,
And roar with joy, until the desert air
And wide horizons echoed it amain:
I feared no foe, for I was monarch there!
I saw my shadow on the parching sand,
When the hot sun had kissed the mountain's rim;
And when the moon rose o'er long wastes of land,
I sought my prey by some still river's brim;
And with me my fierce love, my tawny mate,
Meet mother of strong cubs, meet lion's bride . .
We made our lair in regions desolate,
The solitude of wildernesses wide.
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poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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A Song of the Country
Away from the roar and the rattle,
The dust and the din of the town,
Where to live is to brawl and to battle,
Till the strong treads the weak man down!
Away to the bonnie green hills
Where the sunshine sleeps on the brae,
And the heart of the greenwood thrills
To the hymn of the bird on the spray.
Away from the smoke and the smother,
The veil of the dun and the brown,
The push and the plash and the pother,
The wear and the waste of the town!
Away where the sky shines clear,
And the light breeze wanders at will,
And the dark pine-wood nods near
To the light-plumed birch on the hill.
Away from the whirling and wheeling,
And steaming above and below,
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poem by John Stuart Blackie from Littell's Living Age, vol. 129
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Night Burial In The Forest
Lay him down where the fern is thick and fair.
Fain was he for life, here lies he low:
With the blood washed clean from his brow and his beautiful hair,
Lay him here in the dell where the orchids grow.
Let the birch-bark torches roar in the gloom,
And the trees crowd up in a quiet startled ring
So lone is the land that in this lonely room
Never before has breathed a human thing.
Cover him well in his canvas shroud, and the moss
Part and heap again on his quiet breast,
What recks he now of gain, or love, or loss
Who for love gained rest?
While she who caused it all hides her insolent eyes
Or braids her hair with the ribbons of lust and of lies,
And he who did the deed fares out like a hunted beast
To lurk where the musk-ox tramples the barren ground
Where the stroke of his coward heart is the only sound.
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poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
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Remembering Bukowski.... Hope This Is Nothing New To You
So You Want To Be A Writer?
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Lambeau Effect
Green Bay, Titletown, Lambeau Field, the Packers
fan or not the experience is breathe taking
People from all over the country, some oversea
come to enjoy the long traditions and magic
Tailgaters everywhere, Grills a fire
Strangers talking as friends, chatting last week's game
Brats, Hamburgers, steaks sizzling
the beer in the coolers chillin, the soda & booze fizzling
beans bags tossing, Music blasting tunes
Women dancing, Guys laughing
flags flying, Green and gold flowing everywhere
the proud partiers showing their pride
stands and Bands surround the Sacred land
the bars full of crazy fun fans
the costume they wear so unique, From the Bishop to the Hulk
war paint on, warmed up for the frozen tundra
the pregame rituals, praying to the football gods
beer salutes for a championship, nothing no less
These fans win or lose treat strangers as one of them
cheering, laughing, crying, praying all during the game
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poem by Michael Peterson
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By Candlelight
the real child comes out
in the dark
little creatures
run all over the wall
by the candle
the children scream, laugh
trying to outdo each other
the flickering light
that makes their dream
come true
dogs, cats and mouse
large and small
all over the wall
the children yelp, meow
jump in delight
our fine children
cast light on us
about their world
in that one blackout
animals we thought should
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Death Of Captain Cooke,
OF 'THE BELLEROPHON,' KILLED IN THE SAME BATTLE.
When anxious Spain, along her rocky shore,
From cliff to cliff returned the sea-fight's roar;
When flash succeeding flash, tremendous broke
The haze incumbent, and the clouds of smoke,
As oft the volume rolled away, thy mien,
Thine eye, serenely terrible, was seen,
My gallant friend.--Hark! the shrill bugle calls,
Is the day won! alas, he falls--he falls!
His soul from pain, from agony release!
Hear his last murmur, Let me die in peace!
Yet still, brave Cooke, thy country's grateful tear,
Shall wet the bleeding laurel on thy bier.
But who shall wake to joy, through a long life
Of sadness, thy beloved and widowed wife,
Who now, perhaps, thinks how the green seas foam,
That bear thy victor ship impatient home!
Alas! the well-known views,--the swelling plain,
Thy laurel-circled home, endeared in vain,
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poem by William Lisle Bowles
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A London Fête
All night fell hammers, shock on shock;
With echoes Newgate's granite clang'd:
The scaffold built, at eight o'clock
They brought the man out to be hang'd.
Then came from all the people there
A single cry, that shook the air;
Mothers held up their babes to see,
Who spread their hands, and crow'd for glee;
Here a girl from her vesture tore
A rag to wave with, and join'd the roar;
There a man, with yelling tired,
Stopp'd, and the culprit's crime inquired;
A sot, below the doom'd man dumb,
Bawl'd his health in the world to come;
These blasphemed and fought for places;
Those, half-crush'd, cast frantic faces,
To windows, where, in freedom sweet,
Others enjoy'd the wicked treat.
At last, the show's black crisis pended;
Struggles for better standings ended;
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poem by Coventry Patmore
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