Quotes about hung, page 18
New And Old
I and new love, in all its living bloom,
Sat vis-à-vis, while tender twilight hours
Went softly by us, treading as on flowers.
Then suddenly I saw within the room
The old love, long since lying in its tomb.
It dropped the cerecloth from its fleshless face
And smiled on me, with a remembered grace
That, like the noontide, lit the gloaming gloom.
Upon its shroud there hung the grave’s green mould,
About it hung the odour of the dead;
Yet from its cavernous eyes such light was shed
That all my life seemed gilded, as with gold;
Unto the trembling new love “Go, ” I said,
“I do not need thee, for I have the old.”
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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A Puppy Kind of Hopeless
When she hung up the receiver...
I heated to a temperature fever.
My friends all told me I should leave her.
But I believed,
Come what may on that day...
She and I stayed in love.
A puppy kind..
Of hopeless love.
But all I got to receive was deceit.
And she could rattle a fanatical in me.
If she wanted to flaunt it!
Knowing she had my nose open.
Still I kept all possibilities high.
Hoping.
I had a need to be that type of guy!
So hard I tried.
When she hung up the receiver...
I heated to a temperature fever.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Southside Of Town
First day of June and the wind is cold
Blow away oh i a
And it’s lay down and die or go on the dole
Blow away oh i a
Hung around, hung around
As long as I could allow
In the morning I'll be bound
From the southside of town
First day of June, my cuff is tore
Blow away oh i a
And I can’t stay here anymore
Blow away oh i a
Fields of brown, fields of brown
And there’s rust on the plough
In the morning I’ll be bound
From the southside of town
Fare ye well, pale Mary
With the alders in your rocks
[...] Read more
poem by Patrick O'Reilly
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Margarita
Sundering the bushes like a snare,
More violet than Margarita's tight-pressed lips,
More passionate than Margarita's white-eyed stare,
The nightingale glowed, royally throbbed and trilled.
Like the scent of grass ascending,
Like the crazed rainfall's mercury, the foliage among,
He stupefied the bark, approached the mouth, panting,
And, halting there, upon a braid he hung.
When Margarita to the light was drawn,
Stroking her eyes with an astonished hand,
It seemed, beneath the helm of branch and rain,
A weary Amazon was fallen to the ground.
Her head in her hand in his hand lay,
Her other arm was bent back up to where,
Dangling, there hung her helmet of shade,
Sundering the branches like a snare.
poem by Boris Pasternak
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I Do Like His Dog
Surly looking and hung over after a night on the grog
I cannot say I do like him much though I do like his dog
His golden retriever on seeing me wags her tail
Of making a new friend of every opportunity she does avail
She does not have him to thank for her nice personality
The man and his dog look at life differently
Out walking the retriever after a row with his wife
Hung over and feeling quite hard done by life
But his female dog of people not in any way indifferent or shy
A great love of humanity she seems to enjoy
With her surly master as she walks down the street
She wags her tail at everyone she does meet
The dog and her master different as chalk and cheese
But then dogs than us far more easy to please.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Better Bitter Than Bitten
Better bitter than bitten.
Or hung out to dry and smittened.
One can get over quickly a bitterness,
That hits...
When told by a mister or miss,
What is felt should be forbidden.
Since a committed spouse...
May be hiding out watching.
And not too far from the house,
If one decides cheating...
In a game of cat and mouse,
Is caught and found out.
Better bitter than bitten.
Or hung out to dry and smittened.
It is best to portray an innocent kitten.
Than to be struck by a louse...
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Horatio
His portrait hung upon the wall.
Oh how at us he used to stare.
Each Sunday when I made my call! --
And when one day it wasn't there,
Quite quick I seemed to understand
The light was green to hold her hand.
Her eyes were amorously lit;
I knew she wouldn't mind at all.
Yet what I did was sit and sit
Seeing that blankness on the wall . . .
Horatio had a gentle face,--
How would my mug look in his place?
That oblong of wall-paper wan!
And while she prattled prettily
I sensed the red light going on,
So I refused a cup of tea,
And took my gold-topped cane and hat--
My going seemed to leave her flat.
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poem by Robert William Service
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The White Birds
I WOULD that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea!
We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fade and flee;
And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky,
Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not die.
A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled, the lily and rose;
Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes,
Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall of the dew:
For I would we were changed to white birds on the wandering foam: I and you!
I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan shore,
Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more;
Soon far from the rose and the lily and fret of the flames would we be,
Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea!
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Lullaby
Lullaby! Lullaby!
There’s a tower strong and high
Built of oak and brick and stone,
Stands before a wood alone.
The doors are of the oak so brown
As any ale in Oxford town,
The walls are builded warm and thick
Of the old red Roman brick,
The good grey stone is over all
In arch and floor of the tower tall.
And maidens three are living there
All in the upper chamber fair,
Hung with silver, hung with pall,
And stories painted on the wall.
And softly goes the whirring loom
In my ladies’ upper room,
For they shall spin both night and day
Until the stars do pass away.
But every night at evening.
The window open wide they fling,
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poem by Clive Staples Lewis
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Southampton Water
Smooth went our boat upon the summer seas,
Leaving, for so it seemed, the world behind,
Its sounds of mingled uproar: we, reclined
Upon the sunny deck, heard but the breeze
That o'er us whispering passed, or idly played
With the lithe flag aloft. A woodland scene
On either side drew its slope line of green,
And hung the water's shining edge with shade.
Above the woods, Netley! thy ruins pale
Peered as we passed; and Vecta's azure hue
Beyond the misty castle met our view;
Where in mid channel hung the scarce seen sail.
So all was calm and sunshine as we went
Cheerily o'er the briny element.
Oh! were this little boat to us the world,
As thus we wandered far from sounds of care,
Circled by friends and gentle maidens fair,
Whilst morning airs the waving pennant curled;
How sweet were life's long voyage, till in peace
We gained that haven still, where all things cease!
poem by William Lisle Bowles
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