Quotes about hover, page 2
A Song
Sweet dreams, form a shade
O'er my lovely infant's head!
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams
By happy, silent, moony beams!
Sweet Sleep, with soft down
Weave thy brows an infant crown
Sweet Sleep, angel mild,
Hover o'er my happy child!
Sweet smiles, in the night
Hover over my delight!
Sweet smiles, mother's smile,
All the livelong night beguile.
Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thine eyes!
Sweet moan, sweeter smile,
All the dovelike moans beguile.
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poem by William Blake
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Above The Wide Brown Country
Above the wide brown country in the gray evening sky
A black shouldered kite out hunting he hover as he fly
With quivering wings it hover suspended there in space
Scanning the ground for small prey it hangs in the one place.
And then it flies a little and the same pattern repeat
And scans around with it's microscopic like eyes for mouse or frog to eat
All in the depths of Winter it hunts for smaller prey
But most little creatures under cover on a chilly Winter day.
With black bands on it's wings and shoulders and mostly gray to white
The reason for it's common name of the black shouldered kite
In the weakening light of evening it is hunting out late
And may have to go to it's roost hungry as the clock on none does wait.
Above the wide brown country at a quarter after four
In the fading lamp of evening just an hour of light or a little more
Left for it for to make a kill and to ease it's appetite
And it may have to go to roost quite hungry for to spend a hungry night.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Monologue #3
how kind of you
you wait for life here
you are sitting, sipping coffee, watching the first sunrise by
the bay window.
relax.
how stupid of you to imagine life as a force
a knight of the morning
riding on winged white horse
inviting you for a ride
on the clouds.
i am not stupid. i am not stupid.
shut up.
there are so many things that you do not know.
I AM A forest of
mysteries.
I have secrets. flowers, worms, seeds,
stones,
ants, scorpions.
so you are into insects now?
small time.
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Cradle Song
Sweet dreams, form a shade
O’er my lovely infant’s head;
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams
By happy, silent, moony beams.
Sweet Sleep, with soft down
Weave thy brows an infant crown.
Sweet Sleep, Angel mild,
Hover o’er my happy child.
Sweet smiles, in the night
Hover over my delight;
Sweet smiles, mother’s smiles,
All the livelong night beguiles.
Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy eyes.
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
All the dovelike moans beguiles.
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poem by William Blake from Songs of Innocence (1789)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Haunter
He does not think that I haunt here nightly:
How shall I let him know
That whither his fancy sets him wandering
I, too, alertly go? -
Hover and hover a few feet from him
Just as I used to do,
But cannot answer his words addressed me -
Only listen thereto!
When I could answer he did not say them:
When I could let him know
How I would like to join in his journeys
Seldom he wished to go.
Now that he goes and wants me with him
More than he used to do,
Never he sees my faithful phantom
Though he speaks thereto.
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poem by Thomas Hardy
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I'll Sleep My Life Away
When dying tomorrow
is no worse than dying today,
I'll sleep my life away;
no hunger unbearable,
no pain so lacerating -
no lie to make up...
no human defamed.
The world shuts down,
the avenues sleep.
The body forgotten,
the heart stops to weep.
With clouds as my roof,
darkness, my covers...
I hover in nothingness
for nothingness is life.
Death is waking up in obscene streets
begging for food that could not satisfy -
for hunger, pain and sorrow meet
under that same old sky.
Death is waking up in misery
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poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
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Leading You
i am leading you to a place
where you can be yourself
where you can be free
you will see a black crow there
and it will stare at you
do not be frightened
it will soon leave if you look at it in return
with a calm, strong eye
then another shadow will come flying in
through the window of your house
the shadow of the monkey-eating eagle
too it will stare at you with an intimidating claw
but just be gentle
and soon just like the black crow it will leave
and then you must stand tall beside the same window
where the two birds hover temporarity
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lady button-eyes
When the busy day is done,
And my weary little one
Rocketh gently to and fro;
When the night winds softly blow,
And the crickets in the glen
Chirp and chirp and chirp again;
When upon the haunted green
Fairies dance around their queen -
Then from yonder misty skies
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.
Through the murk and mist and gloam
To our quiet, cozy home,
Where to singing, sweet and low,
Rocks a cradle to and fro;
Where the clock's dull monotone
Telleth of the day that's done;
Where the moonbeams hover o'er
Playthings sleeping on the floor -
Where my weary wee one lies
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poem by Eugene Field
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I've Played at Love
I’VE PLAYED AT LOVE
I've played at love before, as careless lover,
Viewed prospects varied with a distant eye.
Enchantment with enchantment would supply
Part-time employment, feelings undercover.
Love's osmosis, I dared not discover,
As empathy gives depth few care to try.
Yet should now lightning strike, - my quest's reply -
Enlightenment which lets the soul recover
Delight to light the will to live, not hover,
At sea with self defied, I’d not deny
The tenderness ‘One’ might personify.
Laughter shared may heaven on earth uncover.
Others would seem sad ghosts, drift drab or worse -
VErsifying here I wait, rehearse...
16 September 2001 I’ve Played at Love
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Almer Mater
Know you her secret none can utter?
Hers of the Book, the tripled Crown?
Still on the spire the pigeons flutter,
Still by the gateway flits the gown;
Still on the street, from corbel and gutter,
Faces of stone look down.
Faces of stone, and stonier faces—
Some from library windows wan
Forth on her gardens, her green spaces,
Peer and turn to their books anon.
Hence, my Muse, from the green oases
Gather the tent, begone!
Nay, should she by the pavement linger
Under the rooms where once she played,
Who from the feast would rise to fling her
One poor sou for her serenade?
One short laugh for the antic finger
Thrumming a lute-string frayed?
Once, my dear—but the world was young then—
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poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
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