Quotes about chapel, page 2
At The Saturday Club
THIS is our place of meeting; opposite
That towered and pillared building: look at it;
King's Chapel in the Second George's day,
Rebellion stole its regal name away,--
Stone Chapel sounded better; but at last
The poisoned name of our provincial past
Had lost its ancient venom; then once more
Stone Chapel was King's Chapel as before.
(So let rechristened North Street, when it can,
Bring back the days of Marlborough and Queen Anne!)
Next the old church your wandering eye will meet--
A granite pile that stares upon the street--
Our civic temple; slanderous tongues have said
Its shape was modelled from St. Botolph's head,
Lofty, but narrow; jealous passers-by
Say Boston always held her head too high.
Turn half-way round, and let your look survey
The white facade that gleams across the way,--
The many-windowed building, tall and wide,
The palace-inn that shows its northern side
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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By the Fire-side
I
How well I know what I mean to do
When the long dark Autumn evenings come:
And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue?
With the music of all thy voices, dumb
In life's November too!
II
I shall be found by the fire, suppose,
O'er a great wise book as beseemeth age,
While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows
And I turn the page, and I turn the page,
Not verse now, only prose!
III
Till the young ones whisper, finger on lip,
"There he is at it, deep in Greek:
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poem by Robert Browning from Men and Women (1855)
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The Canon Of Aughrim
You ask me of English honour, whether your Nation is just?
Justice for us is a word divine, a name we revere,
Alas, no more than a name, a thing laid by in the dust.
The world shall know it again, but not in this month or year.
Honour? Oh no, you profane it. Justice? What words! What deeds!
Look at the suppliant Earth with its living burden of men.
Here and to Hindostan the nations and kings and creeds
Praise your name as a god's, the god of their children slain.
Which of us doubts your justice? It is not here in the West,
After six hundred years of pitiless legal war,
The sons of our soil are in doubt. They know, who have borne it, best:
The world is famished for justice. You give us a stone, your law.
These are its fruits. Yet, think you, the Ireland where men weep
Once was a jubilant land and dear to the Saints of God.
All you have made it to--day is a hell to conquer and keep,
Yours by the right of the strongest hand, the right of the rod.
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poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Golden Legend: IV. The Road To Hirschau
PRINCE HENRY _and_ ELSIE, _with their attendants, on
horseback._
_Elsie._ Onward and onward the highway runs
to the distant city, impatiently bearing
Tidings of human joy and disaster, of love and of
hate, of doing and daring!
_Prince Henry._ This life of ours is a wild aeolian
harp of many a joyous strain,
But under them all there runs a loud perpetual wail,
as of souls in pain.
_Elsie._ Faith alone can interpret life, and the heart
that aches and bleeds with the stigma
Of pain, alone bears the likeness of Christ, and can
comprehend its dark enigma.
_Prince Henry._ Man is selfish, and seeketh pleasure
with little care of what may betide;
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Uhland's
Yonder stands the hillside chapel
Mid the evergreens and rocks,
All day long it hears the song
Of the shepherd to his flocks.
Then the chapel bell goes tolling-
Knelling for a soul that's sped;
Silent and sad the shepherd lad
Hears the requiem for the dead.
Shepherd, singers of the valley,
Voiceless now, speed on before;
Soon shall knell that chapel bell
For the songs you'll sing no more.
poem by Eugene Field
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Firefly Love Bug
the firefly which is a beetle
leaves my heart torn and feeble.
it came into my life with its bright light.
when i was at my darkest peak
and my heart was mighty weak.
it radiated such a glow
that i did'nt know which way to go.
so i followed this lovely light
and it took me on a perilous flight.
it said that it could find love
even in the dark
and for me to give it my heart.
so i entrusted to it the one thing
that i had left, and it would give me
all its best.
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poem by Louis Rams
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The Calling
as I walked down the unlit street
I saw a candle lit in a window.
like a lighthouse, leading and guiding
the ships in the dark of night.
so was this flicker of light.
it brought me to this window in a chapel
and the stained glass of my lord
CHRIST on the cross.
as I looked upon his picture
'a thought did enter my mind'.
why was CHRIST facing out? instead of in
for all the congregation to see.
that's when I realized that he was calling to me.
calling for me to come inside
for I had so much to hide.
as I walked to this chapel, I saw
it had twelve steps to get to the top.
I knew then I could not stop.
each step had the face of one of the apostles.
and each apostle greeting me in a different way
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poem by Louis Rams
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What... Watts's Cat!
IN THE HAND OF GOD
In & out
amongst
sunlight & shadows
the dead
come alive
as we speak
their names
make them real again
let them live in our voices
each tombstone
eager for us
to say them
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poem by Dónall Dempsey
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La Maitresse
By the Convent of St. Mary
In the town of La Rochelle,
I would sit there, patient, waiting
'Til I heard the chapel bell,
Then I'd climb up on the ivy
That was clinging to the wall,
Hang on tight and peer on over
Breathless, hoping not to fall!
I was just a young subaltern
In the army of the crown,
Sent to seize all those heretics
Who sought refuge in the town,
And the daughters of those nobles
Who refused the marriage vow
When required to marry Catholics -
I had to hunt them down.
Then these girls were bound and taken
To the convent, where they lay,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Drought and Doctrine
Come, take the tenner, doctor . . . yes, I know the bill says “five,”
But it ain't as if you'd merely kep' our little 'un alive;
Man, you saved the mother's reason when you saved that babby's life,
An' it's thanks to you I ha'n't a ravin' idiot for a wife.
Let me tell you all the story, an' if then you think it strange
That I'd like to fee ye extry—why, I'll take the bloomin' change.
If yer bill had said a hundred . . . I'm a poor man, doc, an' yet
I'd 'a' slaved till I had squared it; ay, an' still been in yer debt.
Well, you see the wife's got notions on a heap o' things that ain't
To be handled by a man as don't pretend to be a saint;
So I minds “the cultivation,” smokes my pipe, an' makes no stir,
An' religion an' such p'ints I lays entirely on to her.
Now, she's got it fixed within her that, if children die afore
They've been sprinkled by the parson, they've no show for evermore;
An' though they're spared the pitchforks, an' the brim-stun', an' the smoke,
They ain't allowed to mix up there with other little folk.
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poem by James Brunton Stephens
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