Quotes about life!, page 2
The Victories Of Love. Book I
I
From Frederick Graham
Mother, I smile at your alarms!
I own, indeed, my Cousin's charms,
But, like all nursery maladies,
Love is not badly taken twice.
Have you forgotten Charlotte Hayes,
My playmate in the pleasant days
At Knatchley, and her sister, Anne,
The twins, so made on the same plan,
That one wore blue, the other white,
To mark them to their father's sight;
And how, at Knatchley harvesting,
You bade me kiss her in the ring,
Like Anne and all the others? You,
That never of my sickness knew,
Will laugh, yet had I the disease,
And gravely, if the signs are these:
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poem by Coventry Patmore
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What Part Of Life Are You Living
What part of life are you living.
What part of life are you living to give?
What part of life are you giving to live.
What part of life are you giving.
What part of life are you living.
And what part of life are you living.
What part of life are you living to give?
What part of life are you giving to live.
What part of life are you giving.
What part of life are you living.
What part of life is a drive by.
What part of life is a downslide.
What part of life are you living.
What part of life are you living to give?
What part of life is a drive by.
What part of life is a downslide.
And what part of life are you living.
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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She and Drugs
Freshly spawned,
Brain dumps
Bleeding grey:
Reflections of a mind
That wavers thin
Along the line
That savours pain -
A pond of skin
Devoid of breast -
The pad a feign:
The nothing
Underneath your bra
At best
Is your imagination
Spread across a narcoleptic world
Suchlike survival
In and out
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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VII. Pompilia
I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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The City of Dreadful Night
Per me si va nella citta dolente.
--Dante
Poi di tanto adoprar, di tanti moti
D'ogni celeste, ogni terrena cosa,
Girando senza posa,
Per tornar sempre la donde son mosse;
Uso alcuno, alcun frutto
Indovinar non so.
Sola nel mondo eterna, a cui si volve
Ogni creata cosa,
In te, morte, si posa
Nostra ignuda natura;
Lieta no, ma sicura
Dell' antico dolor . . .
Pero ch' esser beato
Nega ai mortali e nega a' morti il fato.
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poem by James Thomson
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A Drink
With glass, I am a man – or so I think! –
A role to play when blessed with courtly drink:
A gin or two, then vintage port or wine
To pep me up and gift me with a shine.
I know it’s false, as I now must depend
Upon my daily shots with open end.
Insidious, it all becomes routine
To beg a drink each day for self-esteem.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
All rights reserved
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Three Women
My love is young, so young;
Young is her cheek, and her throat,
And life is a song to be sung
With love the word for each note.
Young is her cheek and her throat;
Her eyes have the smile o' May.
And love is the word for each note
In the song of my life to-day.
Her eyes have the smile o' May;
Her heart is the heart of a dove,
And the song of my life to-day
Is love, beautiful love.
Her heart is the heart of a dove,
Ah, would it but fly to my breast
Where love, beautiful love,
Has made it a downy nest.
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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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442
This is my life Life defines in Metabolism, In reproduction, we make our miniature selves, our look alike In the power of adaptation, like what is in now, What is fashionable, how I blend with all of you How I mimic you, how I become a clown to you, Life in being nice This is my life A short and a merry one This my life In the middle of my own life To life, a life, in the hope of discovering the meaning of my life, My speech my poetry Come to life with me To the life, for the life of one like me, Not taking this life in my own hands, Never, never, To life, this is life As big as life as large as life is large In resiliency, in elasticity Animations, cartooning, animate, I vivify I vilify I quicken I liken The life force in my life’s functions Drawn from life to life drawn Dream to life a life full of dreams This liveliness, this sparkle This effervescence of life, this bubbling life like wine This sprightliness like soft Drink like energy drinks This verve, this vigor this vivacity Of life to life as big as life My life This is my life This me I am life I am energy i am in this poem trying to run away from everything in my life, running in life to life and life, because of life, for life.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Is My Life
Life defines in Metabolism,
In reproduction,
we make our miniature selves,
our look alike
In the power of adaptation,
like what is in now,
What is fashionable,
how I blend with all of you
How I mimic you,
how I become a clown to you,
Life in being nice
This is my life A short and a merry one
This my life In the middle of my own life
To life,
a life,
in the hope of discovering the meaning of my life,
My speech my poetry
Come to life with me
To the life,
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Quatrains Of Life
What has my youth been that I love it thus,
Sad youth, to all but one grown tedious,
Stale as the news which last week wearied us,
Or a tired actor's tale told to an empty house?
What did it bring me that I loved it, even
With joy before it and that dream of Heaven,
Boyhood's first rapture of requited bliss,
What did it give? What ever has it given?
'Let me recount the value of my days,
Call up each witness, mete out blame and praise,
Set life itself before me as it was,
And--for I love it--list to what it says.
Oh, I will judge it fairly. Each old pleasure
Shared with dead lips shall stand a separate treasure.
Each untold grief, which now seems lesser pain,
Shall here be weighed and argued of at leisure.
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poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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