Quotes about vintage, page 17
Modern poetry
What do you witness in modern poetry?
Does it represent sentiments of any country?
Do fond actual spirit missing and has evaporated?
It seems mind is bogged down and perforated,
No reflection of nature, snow clad mountains in poems?
Not concrete views on subjects and lack proper themes,
Short size of lines and left to readers for views
Read out as Para or commentary in news
No curse or regret in words for any message
Be silent spectator and clear smooth way for passage
Our poetic soul has died long back,
We write artificially as if standing on jack,
We have completely lost faith in system around,
We are back to the square one nothing new is found
limitation in expression of ideas and are not found suitable or sound
People do not appreciate as it has lost the ground,
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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Battle Hymn of the Republic
. Howe's Final version
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword:
His Truth is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps.
His Day is marching on.
I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:
'As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
Since God is marching on.'
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat:
Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
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poem by Julia Ward Howe
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To Mr. Tilman After He Had Taken Orders
THOU, whose diviner soul hath caused thee now
To put thy hand unto the holy plough,
Making lay-scornings of the ministry
Not an impediment, but victory ;
What bring'st thou home with thee ? how is thy mind
Affected since the vintage ? Dost thou find
New thoughts and stirrings in thee ? and, as steel
Touch'd with a loadstone, dost new motions feel ?
Or, as a ship after much pain and care
For iron and cloth brings home rich Indian ware,
Hast thou thus traffick'd, but with far more gain
Of noble goods, and with less time and pain ?
Thou art the same materials, as before,
Only the stamp is changèd, but no more.
And as new crowned kings alter the face,
But not the money's substance, so hath grace
Changed only God's old image by creation,
To Christ's new stamp, at this thy coronation ;
Or, as we paint angels with wings, because
They bear God's message and proclaim His laws,
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poem by John Donne
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The Future of Australia
Sing us the Land of the Southern Sea,
The land we have called our own;
Tell us what harvest there shall be
From the seed that we have sown.
We love the legends of olden days,
The songs of the wind and wave;
And border ballads and minstrel lays,
And the poems Shakespeare gave,
The fireside carols and battle rhymes,
And romaunt of the knightly ring;
And the chant with hint of cathedral chimes,
Of him “made blind to sing.”
The tears they tell of our brethren wept,
Their praise is our fathers' fame;
They sing of the seas our navies swept,
Of the shrines that lent us flame.
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poem by Mary Hannay Foott
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The Old Wife and the New
He sat beneath the curling vines
That round the gay verandah twined,
His forehead seamed with sorrow’s lines,
An old man with a weary mind.
His young wife, with a rosy face
And brown arms ambered by the sun,
Went flitting all about the place—
Master and mistress both in one.
What caused that old man’s look of care?
Was she not blithe and fair to see?
What blacker than her raven hair,
What darker than her eyes might be?
The old man bent his weary head;
The sunlight on his gray hair shone;
His thoughts were with a woman dead
And buried, years and years agone:
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poem by Victor James Daley
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Life (inspired by Charlotte Bronte)
life is like the sea
that reverberates with the waves
in the calm of morn, in the first light
when a breeze freshens up
every cell, builds up
tiny waves the way ink brush
creates ripples in water
the painter dips into
for his next masterpiece
spring of life - childhood
who every minute seeks
a new adventure sweet or sour
happenings that would spring up
from the mighty ocean of the mind
in later years for a poem or two
life is like the sea
when the strong wind
begins to show its force
unfurling the massive calm
which this morning
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Golden Wedding Of Longwood
With fifty years between you and your well-kept wedding vow,
The Golden Age, old friends of mine, is not a fable now.
And, sweet as has life's vintage been through all your pleasant past,
Still, as at Cana's marriage-feast, the best wine is the last!
Again before me, with your names, fair Chester's landscape comes,
Its meadows, woods, and ample barns, and quaint, stone-builded homes.
The smooth-shorn vales, the wheaten slopes, the boscage green and soft,
Of which their poet sings so well from towered Cedarcroft.
And lo! from all the country-side come neighbors, kith and kin;
From city, hamlet, farm-house old, the wedding guests come in.
And they who, without scrip or purse, mob-hunted, travel-worn,
In Freedom's age of martyrs came, as victors now return.
Older and slower, yet the same, files in the long array,
And hearts are light and eyes are glad, though heads are badger-gray.
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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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From The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, I: 1-3, V: 12-15, 19-24, 71-72
1
Wake! For the Sun, who scattered into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n and strikes
The Sultán's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
2
Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshiper outside?"
3
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open, then, the Door!
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poem by Edward Fitzgerald
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Causal Chains - Victims
Causal Chains - Victims
I
Crash victims are constrained to change of plan,
their karmic threads led to one time, one place,
who won nor great renown, nor state of grace,
no statement made, no grade, - trapped also-ran.
Smash victims: ordinary girl or man
whose function filled a causal void to trace
world's tipping point as joint between Earth, space,
catalyzing universal plan.
Dash victims subject to a searching scan,
still fill a fulcrum role on which to base
a change of pace for all the human race
tripping switch to hitch 'we wish', 'we can! '
Though victims' stars from headlines disappeared
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Remonstrance.
'Opinion, let me alone: I am not thine.
Prim Creed, with categoric point, forbear
To feature me my Lord by rule and line.
Thou canst not measure Mistress Nature's hair,
Not one sweet inch: nay, if thy sight is sharp,
Would'st count the strings upon an angel's harp?
Forbear, forbear.
'Oh let me love my Lord more fathom deep
Than there is line to sound with: let me love
My fellow not as men that mandates keep:
Yea, all that's lovable, below, above,
That let me love by heart, by heart, because
(Free from the penal pressure of the laws)
I find it fair.
'The tears I weep by day and bitter night,
Opinion! for thy sole salt vintage fall.
-- As morn by morn I rise with fresh delight,
Time through my casement cheerily doth call
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poem by Sidney Lanier
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