Quotes about sill, page 18
The Plant upon the Window-sill!
A little plant grows on the window-sill!
Perhaps a fern or shrub of smaller size!
Why it should grow in such a queer site/place?
I wonder how it gets its nutrition!
May be, a bird had placed the seed just there!
How come, it grows despite no soil at all?
I see it flutter in the breeze at times;
I'm sure, it cannot grow to its full size!
My curiosity is evoked much;
What does it try to tell us human folks?
May be, it is a sign of hope for us!
Should we not trust the Maker for our birth?
By habit, we complain when things go wrong;
Our faith in God dithers and wavers much;
We ought to keep steadfast in times of strife!
Our faith gets tested during stress and strain.
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poem by John Celes
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In Lupum
BEYOND the gates thou gav'st a field to till;
I have a larger on my window-sill.
A farm, d'ye say? Is this a farm to you,
Where for all woods I spay one tuft of rue,
And that so rusty, and so small a thing,
One shrill cicada hides it with a wing;
Where one cucumber covers all the plain;
And where one serpent rings himself in vain
To enter wholly; and a single snail
Eats all and exit fasting to the pool?
Here shall my gardener be the dusty mole.
My only ploughman the . . . mole.
Here shall I wait in vain till figs be set,
And till the spring disclose the violet.
Through all my wilds a tameless mouse careers,
And in that narrow boundary appears,
Huge as the stalking lion of Algiers,
Huge as the fabled boar of Calydon.
And all my hay is at one swoop impresst
By one low-flying swallow for her nest,
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poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Ruins
Ruins in Rome are four a penny,
And here along the Appian Way
I see the monuments of many
Esteemed almighty in their day. . . .
Or so he makes me understand -
My glib guide of the rubber bus,
And tells me with a gesture grand:
"Behold! the tomb of Romulus."
Whereat I stared with eyes of awe,
And yet a whit dismayed was I,
When on its crumbling wall I saw
A washing hanging out to dry;
Yea, that relict of slow decay,
With peristyle and gnarly frieze,
Was garnished with a daft display
Of bifurcation and chemise.
But as we went our Southward way
Another ruin soon I saw;
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poem by Robert William Service
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Ballade Made In The Hot Weather
Fountains that frisk and sprinkle
The moss they overspill;
Pools that the breezes crinkle;
The wheel beside the mill,
With its wet, weedy frill;
Wind-shadows in the wheat;
A water-cart in the street;
The fringe of foam that girds
An islet's ferneries;
A green sky's minor thirds -
To live, I think of these!
Of ice and glass the tinkle,
Pellucid, silver-shrill;
Peaches without a wrinkle;
Cherries and snow at will,
From china bowls that fill
The senses with a sweet
Incuriousness of heat;
A melon's dripping sherds;
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poem by William Ernest Henley
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Seansons When
A shadow loomed on my sill so blue
Through my window my bird flew
Filling my heart with such sadness
Gone sweet bird of happiness
Franticly seeking calling it back
Searching in every corner and ever crack
Sought refuge in other places
Dormant lies now my heart in stasis
My bird no longer sings me love songs
On foreign shore it now belongs
So desperately I tried
Long through the night I cried
My bird now is set free
Its voice no longer calls me
My head no longer filled with rage
It was I the one that kept it in a cage
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poem by Wilfred Mellers
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Forever
잊으라 했는데 잊어 달라 했는데
You asked me to forget about you
그런데도 아직안 너를 잊지 못하네
Yet still I can't forget you
어떻게 잊을까 어찌하면 좋을까
How can I? O what should I do?
세월가도 아직난 너를 잊지 못하네
Even after the long years have passed
sill I can't forget you
아직나는 너를 사랑하고 있나봐
Perhaps I might still love you
아마나는 너를 잊을수가 없나봐
perhaps I might not be able to forget you
영원히 영원히 내가사는 날까지
forever eternally till I die,
아니내가 죽어도 영영 못잊을거야
No, even after i die,
I might not be able to forget you
아직나는 너를 사랑하고 있나봐
Perhaps I might still love you
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poem by Sangnam Nam
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The Milk Billy
So nice it is of you to call . . .
Yes; Monday week we done it;
Right 'igh-clarse weddin' - church an' all.
Cost Bill a bit to run it.
An' wotjer think 'e ups and sez
First night, or thereabout?
'Hey, Lil!' (Lor, it give me sich a thrill),
'Didjer think to put the milk-billy out?'
'Im! Thinkin' of the milk like that.
Show's 'e's domesticated.
'Er? She's no right to tork, the cat!
Although they are related.
It shows my Bill ain't like she sez:
A harum-scarum lout.
'Hey, Lil?' 'Wot's yer troubles, Bill?'
'Didjer think to put the milk-billy out?'
Sounds funny, comin' like from 'im,
A lover so 'igh mettled.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Cottage
Here in turn succeed and rule
Carter, smith, and village fool,
Then again the place is known
As tavern, shop, and Sunday-school;
Now somehow it’s come to me
To light the fire and hold the key,
Here in Heaven to reign alone.
All the walls are white with lime,
Big blue periwinkles climb
And kiss the crumbling window-sill;
Snug inside I sit and rhyme,
Planning, poem, book, or fable,
At my darling beech-wood table
Fresh with bluebells from the hill.
Through the window I can see
Rooks above the cherry-tree,
Sparrows in the violet bed,
Bramble-bush and bumble-bee,
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poem by Robert Graves
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The Calls
A dismal fog-hoarse siren howls at dawn.
I watch the man it calls for, pushed and drawn
Backwards and forwards, helpless as a pawn.
But I'm lazy, and his work's crazy.
Quick treble bells begin at nine o'clock,
Scuttling the schoolboy pulling up his sock,
Scaring the late girl in the inky frock.
I must be crazy; I learn from the daisy.
Stern bells annoy the rooks and doves at ten.
I watch the verger close the doors, and when
I hear the organ moan the first amen,
Sing my religion's-same as pigeons'.
A blatant bugle tears my afternoons.
Out clump the clumsy Tommies by platoons,
Trying to keep in step with rag-time tunes,
But I sit still; I've done my drill.
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poem by Wilfred Owen
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The Calls [unfinished]
A dismal fog-hoarse siren howls at dawn.
I watch the man it calls for, pushed and drawn
Backwards and forwards, helpless as a pawn.
But I'm lazy, and his work's crazy.
Quick treble bells begin at nine o'clock,
Scuttling the schoolboy pulling up his sock,
Scaring the late girl in the inky frock.
I must be crazy; I learn from the daisy.
Stern bells annoy the rooks and doves at ten.
I watch the verger close the doors, and when
I hear the organ moan the first amen,
Sing my religion's-same as pigeons'.
A blatant bugle tears my afternoons.
Out clump the clumsy Tommies by platoons,
Trying to keep in step with rag-time tunes,
But I sit still; I've done my drill.
[...] Read more
poem by Wilfred Owen
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