Quotes about copse, page 2
The Dream
'TWAS summer eve; the changeful beams still play'd
On the fir-bark and through the beechen shade;
Still with soft crimson glow'd each floating cloud;
Still the stream glitter'd where the willow bow'd;
Still the pale moon sate silent and alone,
Nor yet the stars had rallied round her throne;
Those diamond courtiers, who, while yet the West
Wears the red shield above his dying breast,
Dare not assume the loss they all desire,
Nor pay their homage to the fainter fire,
But wait in trembling till the Sun's fair light
Fading, shall leave them free to welcome Night!
So when some Chief, whose name through realms afar
Was still the watchword of succesful war,
Met by the fatal hour which waits for all,
Is, on the field he rallied, forced to fall,
The conquerors pause to watch his parting breath,
Awed by the terrors of that mighty death;
Nor dare the meed of victory to claim,
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poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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A Copse
In a lonely copse, or group of trees,
I find a lady too great on deviltries.
On her hat is a clue to acquire;
I have excelled in this choir.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Through Thin Windows
Through thin windows I see
young leaves rising to twilight storm,
blue mist shimmering
on quick-silver street,
as glowing grass drops
into blackening copse.
With Stygian hand
has night claimed
declining day.
poem by Steven Federle
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Chatterton's Redress
(November 20,1752 – August 24,1770) fallen English poet
`
We walk along magenta paths-
cool seeps into waning light,
bunches peer, ripe for the pick:
funny how they're sour to the lip;
beyond the copse in another's
field, silken amber honey flows.
`
poem by Frederick Kesner
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Early I Viewed The Morning's New Birth (Cavatina)
Early I viewed the morning's new birth,
the eastern sky
was aflame while I walked on a path
that wounded by
a small copse, some hillocks and a field,
up birds did fly,
pheasants and guinea-fowl screeched protest
while in nature I was extremely blest.
poem by Gert Strydom
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At A Burnt Out Double Storey House (Fay Slimm form / decanelle)
Flames had once covered every thing, the entire
space of the floor,
with cooking gas at a cylinder exploding burning
up to the door
and now this ruin consists out of bricks and wire
sheltering the poor,
at a copse of blue gum trees, a place of mourning,
at a big moor;
in my mind I can see that great exploding fire
at the trapdoor.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Violet
The violet in her greenwood bower,
Where birchen boughs with hazel mingle,
May boast itself the fairest flower
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.
Though fair her gems of azure hue,
Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining;
I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,
More sweet through wat'ry lustre shining.
The summer sun that dew shall dry,
Ere yet the day be past its morrow;
No longer in my false love's eye
Remain'd the tear of parting sorrow.
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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The Hill Pines Were Sighing
The hill pines were sighing,
O'ercast and chill was the day:
A mist in the valley lying
Blotted the pleasant May.
But deep in the glen's bosom
Summer slept in the fire
Of the odorous gorse-blossom
And the hot scent of the brier.
A ribald cuckoo clamoured,
And out of the copse the stroke
Of the iron axe that hammered
The iron heart of the oak.
Anon a sound appalling,
As a hundred years of pride
Crashed, in the silence falling;
And the shadowy pine-trees sighed.
poem by Robert Seymour Bridges
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First Known when Lost
I never had noticed it until
'Twas gone, - the narrow copse
Where now the woodman lops
The last of the willows with his bill
It was not more than a hedge overgrown.
One meadow's breadth away
I passed it day by day.
Now the soil is bare as bone,
And black betwixt two meadows green,
Though fresh-cut fag got ends
Of hazel made some amends
With a gleam as if flowers they had been.
Strange it could have hidden so near!
And now I see as I look
That the small winding brook,
A tributary's tributary, rises there.
poem by Edward Thomas
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Music
I hug you, -
Both the rainbow to the river
And the clouds flame
In God's hand.
You laugh, - rain in the sun,
The mignonette bedewed,
And cunning is
A lilac star with eyelash.
Like a cloven comet
Figaro clowns.
Mozart's Tarot
Is cryptic and clear.
Lethean bliss
Sleeps sweet in trombones,
A tarry monastery rings
in a copse of violins.
What shadows does
a gaze cast into space?
You don't know? And you mustn't
look back, my friend.
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poem by Mikhail Alekseevich Kuzmin
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