Quotes about chime, page 18
How Many Bards Gild The Lapses Of Time!
How many bards gild the lapses of time!
A few of them have ever been the food
Of my delighted fancy,—I could brood
Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime:
And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,
These will in throngs before my mind intrude:
But no confusion, no disturbance rude
Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime.
So the unnumbered sounds that evening store;
The songs of birds—the whispering of the leaves—
The voice of waters—the great bell that heaves
With solemn sound,—and thousand others more,
That distance of recognizance bereaves,
Makes pleasing music, and not wild uproar.
poem by John Keats
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When the Great Sun Sinks to His Rest
When the great sun sinks to his rest,
His golden glories thrilling me,
And voiceless longings stir my breast,
Then teach me, Lord, to worship Thee.
And when the stars—the daylight fled—
In serried, shining ranks I see,
Filling the splendid vault o’erhead,
Then teach me, Lord, to worship Thee.
Or if in solemn forest shades
The calm of nature steals o’er me,
And silence all my soul pervades,
Then teach me, Lord, to worship Thee.
Not in the sacred shrines alone,
Which chime their summons unto me,
Would I look upward to Thy throne,
But everywhere would worship Thee.
poem by Maltbie Davenport Babcock
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The Lonely Room
Tiptoe around the room.
What is it that is found?
Silence, except for the clock that's ticking
nothing else is around.
An empty room with nothing in it,
only the clock that ticks the minute
in this lonely room.
Why was the clock left behind
with not a soul to tell the time?
It was on the mantelpiece
with nobody to hear it chime.
Was it left as a reminder?
I think it would have been kinder
to remove it from the room.
Left alone, it had no purpose.
Who could hear it now?
Ghosts from the past that once lived here
that have taken a vow
[...] Read more
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Judgemental Values - 1911
Trip's rune tune drips, pain grips gain's grain, sands slip
indifferent to applause or tribulation:
as centuries dissolve, full meaning's chime
to tocsin turns from tintinnabulation.
Dissatisfaction earns itself worm urn,
untasted yolk/yoke soon evaporates,
missed chances opportunities may earn
for good or ill, for boon, shame blamed on Fates.
Concern for failure ends in cul-de-sac
might-have-beens' wishful-thinking self-destroying,
faith - headless hanger for skeletal sack,
bloom's blossom's blown from fantasy employing
defenses that to pseudo judgements fall.
Time's jury haggles over verdict's call.
(7 September 2009)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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What is love?
What is love?
It's impossible to explain.
What is love?
I think this question will remain.
What is love?
We ask one another.
What is love?
A little child asked his mother.
It's so simple and hard to understand.
It can be so different,
[...] Read more
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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A Beautiful Chime!
A beautiful bond is like a melodious tune
A lovely relationship is so much for each other
Just as the breeze leaves marks on the rune
Not possible to have one without one another
Every Chime needs a breeze to make it sound
To tinkle with the gentleness of the breeze
Sometimes be noisy and loud with wind 's pound
Clink with the rush of the gushing wild breeze
A loving heart has a lot of feelings and passion
For the One whom it knows, cares and loves forever
Feelings reach the lovely heart with love and passion
Response showers much more fondness, love forever
The way things blend togehter
Not possible without each other.
-Sonnet-
poem by Manjeshwari P MYSORE
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Hummingbird
Hummingbird! keep on humming your wings,
With lavender feathered wings hover in wind.
Nectar of sweet petals sweeten your hymn,
Just in half syllables, is your chirping chime.
On a tree near brook, sitting in the serenity
You sigh for your mate, one who is celebrity.
You see his show of swoop before resonating
affirmation of acceptance for your mating.
Our contract is for this spring and not forever
I know little creature this is what you whisper.
In architected nest two pretty pearls are laid;
In three months, have to become hummingbird.
Mate of mankind, you are the love teacher.
Perhaps they gave idea of the helicopter.
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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Sonnet XII
I STAND beside the waves,--the mournful waves,--
Where thou didst stand in silence and in fear,
For thou wert train'd by custom's haughty slaves,
And love, from such as I, disdain'd to hear;
Yet, with the murmur of the echoing sea,
And the monotonous billows, rolling on,
Were mingled sounds of weeping,--for in thee
All nature was not harden'd into stone:
And from the shore there came a distant chime
From the old village-clock;--ah! since that day,
Like a dull passing-bell each stroke of time
Falls on my heart; and in the ocean spray
A voice of lamentation seems to dwell,
As in that bitter hour of agonised farewell!
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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A Similitude
FAIR as the night—when all the astral fires
Of heaven are burning in the clear expanse,
My love is; and her eyes like star-depths glance
Lustrous with glowing thoughts and pure desires,
And that mysterious pathos which inspires
All moods divine in mortal passion’s trance—
All that its earthly music doth enhance
As with the rapture of seraphic lyres!
I gaze upon her till the atmosphere
Sweetens intensely, and to my charmed sight
All fair associated forms appear
Swimming in joy, as swim yon orbs in light—
And all sweet sounds, though common to mine ear,
Chime up like silver-wingèd dreams in flight.
poem by Charles Harpur
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Blood, Sweat and Tears
Think just think, of all the blood, sweat and tears
London has shed with the passing of years.
The dirt, dust and smog, the noise and the grime.
Poverty, slavery, squalor and crime.
Ambitions and hopes, mad schemings and fears,
Disease, depravity, vice, wines and beers,
Arts and culture can pass the test of time,
City of contrast from base to sublime.
Historical monuments, long endears,
Symbolize prestige of people and peers.
Noise of the traffic and church bells still chime,
Rags next to riches, cultures rise from slime.
Millions of people have lived, worked and died-
London remembers few only with pride.
poem by Susan Mary Robertson
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