Quotes about piles, page 2
If Cohen Would
O, Cohen, hear our song of sentiment!
Withdraw thy sordid thoughts from cent. per cent.,
And, for, the sake of Empire, gentle Yid,
Lend us a million quid.
If England's great Financial Houses would
Back up our aspirations as they should,
If we could influence cold £ s. d.
By sentiment and words of loyalty,
What joy - and cash - were ours! Ay, what a loan
We'd gaily spend - if our true aims were known.
How might we proudly flaunt our nationhood!
If Cohen only would.
If uncle owned a little sentiment,
And pondered less upon his much per cent.;
If blind financiers could he made to see
The high cash value of our loyalty,
How they would rush, with many offers rash,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Vulture and the Husbandman
By Louisa CarolineN.B. -- A Vulture is a rapacious and obscene bird, whichdestroys its prey by plucking it limb from limb with its powerfulbeak and talons.A Husbandman is a man in a low position of life, who supportshimself by the use of the plough. -- (Johnson's Dictionary).
The rain was raining cheerfully,
As if it had been May;
The Senate-House appeared inside
Unusually gay;
And this was strange, because it was
A Viva-voce day.
The men were sitting sulkily,
Their paper work was done;
They wanted much to go away
To ride or row or run;
"It's very rude," they said, "to keep
Us here, and spoil our fun."
The papers they had finished lay
In piles of blue and white.
They answered every thing they could,
And wrote with all their might,
But, though they wrote it all by rote,
They did not write it right.
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poem by Arthur Clement Hilton
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A Mahout's Tale
Gazing at a colossal giant standing gracefully tall
The heart rallies to engage a rare humanity's call
To free from a tether a bosom ally, from harrowing chains
For a walk towards freedom, to the vast opens of the forests and plains
My heroic breadwinner as displaced are the boughs and stubs
Yet the sorrowful heart valiantly wallops and clubs
My giant ally my livelihood's knight in shining armor
I've treated with scant respect at the dearth of heart's enamor
I remember the day when I encountered this giant's might
As the villagers fled in flocks in a frenzy of fright
Yet I remained strong against the delicate creature in front
As with a tranquilizer and net, I did encounter a creature to affront
As the days passed the creature metamorphosed to an angel
Like platonic lovers in a fairytale the beast in me with my mystical belle
Belle looks at me with her colossal eye lashes waving in the breeze
As I put on a shirt in creamy white sans a single crease
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poem by Dilantha Gunawardana
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The Prospector
I strolled up old Bonanza, where I staked in ninety-eight,
A-purpose to revisit the old claim.
I kept thinking mighty sadly of the funny ways of Fate,
And the lads who once were with me in the game.
Poor boys, they're down-and-outers, and there's scarcely one to-day
Can show a dozen colors in his poke;
And me, I'm still prospecting, old and battered, gaunt and gray,
And I'm looking for a grub-stake, and I'm broke.
I strolled up old Bonanza. The same old moon looked down;
The same old landmarks seemed to yearn to me;
But the cabins all were silent, and the flat, once like a town,
Was mighty still and lonesome-like to see.
There were piles and piles of tailings where we toiled with pick and pan,
And turning round a bend I heard a roar,
And there a giant gold-ship of the very newest plan
Was tearing chunks of pay-dirt from the shore.
It wallowed in its water-bed; it burrowed, heaved and swung;
It gnawed its way ahead with grunts and sighs;
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poem by Robert William Service
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The Spellin'-Bee
I NEVER shall furgit that night when father hitched up Dobbin,
An' all us youngsters clambered in an' down the road went bobbin'
To school where we was kep' at work in every kind o' weather,
But where that night a spellin'-bee was callin' us together.
'Twas one o' Heaven's banner nights, the stars was all a glitter,
The moon was shinin' like the hand o' God had jest then lit her.
The ground was white with spotless snow, the blast was sort o' stingin';
But underneath our round-abouts, you bet our hearts was singin'.
That spellin'-bee had be'n the talk o' many a precious moment,
The youngsters all was wild to see jes' what the precious show meant,
An' we whose years was in their teens was little less desirous
O' gittin' to the meetin' so's our sweethearts could admire us.
So on we went so anxious fur to satisfy our mission
That father had to box our ears, to smother our ambition.
But boxin' ears was too short work to hinder our arrivin',
He jest turned roun' an' smacked us all, an' kep' right on a-drivin'.
Well, soon the schoolhouse hove in sight, the winders beamin' brightly;
The sound o' talkin' reached our ears, and voices laffin' lightly.
It puffed us up so full an' big 'at I'll jest bet a dollar,
There wa'n't a feller there but felt the strain upon his collar.
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poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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A Letter from Italy
Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,
Magna virûm! tibi res antiquæ laudis et artis
Aggredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes.
Virg. Geor. 2.
While you, my Lord, the rural shades admire,
And from Britannia's public posts retire,
Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please,
For their advantage sacrifice your ease;
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the soft season and inviting clime
Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme.
For wheresoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,
Poetic fields encompass me around,
And still I seem to tread on classic ground;
For here the Muse so oft her harp has strung
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poem by Joseph Addison
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In The Beginning
Pre> first man: I think, I think I am, therefore I am, I think.
Establishment: of course you are my bright little star,
Ive miles
And miles
Of files
Pretty files of your forefathers fruit
And now to suit our
Great computer,
Youre magnetic ink.
First man: Im more than that, I know I am, at least, I think I must be.
Inner man: there you go man, keep as cool as you can.
Face piles
And piles
Of trials
With smiles.
It riles them to believe
That you perceive
The web they weave
And keep on thinking free. /pre>
song performed by Moody Blues
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Spirit Of Navigation
Stern Father of the storm! who dost abide
Amid the solitude of the vast deep,
For ever listening to the sullen tide,
And whirlwinds that the billowy desert sweep!
Thou at the distant death-shriek dost rejoice;
The rule of the tempestuous main is thine,
Outstretched and lone; thou utterest thy voice,
Like solemn thunders: These wild waves are mine;
Mine their dread empire; nor shall man profane
The eternal secrets of my ancient reign.
The voice is vain: secure, and as in scorn,
The gallant vessel scuds before the wind;
Her parting sails swell stately to the morn;
She leaves the green earth and its hills behind;
Gallant before the wind she goes, her prow
High bearing, and disparting the blue tide
That foams and flashes in its rage below;
Meantime the helmsman feels a conscious pride,
And while far onward the long billows swell,
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poem by William Lisle Bowles
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Soul For Hire
Hang my head and shut my eyes
What kind of justice is this?
Fool I was, I thought that you fought fire with fire
Got to me more than just a soul for hire
Speaking for myself I wouldn't take the fame, the fees, the glory
For whoring in the practice of the law
I make my case stop and stutter
Soul comes unglued from the uppers
Blood is seeping in the hole
A mother's eye is weeping
I see every human kind
And still the truth is distant
I see every evil men do and desire
Got to be more then just a soul for hire
When it's time to give protection
To the ones who need it most, who are desperate
I get distracted from my job
Streams of ink and piles of paper
What are the breaks?
Jump out the window? Parole? Escape?
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song performed by Elvis Costello
Added by Lucian Velea
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Le Cygne (The Swan)
À Victor Hugo
I
Andromaque, je pense à vous! Ce petit fleuve,
Pauvre et triste miroir où jadis resplendit
L'immense majesté de vos douleurs de veuve,
Ce Simoïs menteur qui par vos pleurs grandit,
A fécondé soudain ma mémoire fertile,
Comme je traversais le nouveau Carrousel.
Le vieux Paris n'est plus (la forme d'une ville
Change plus vite, hélas! que le coeur d'un mortel);
Je ne vois qu'en esprit tout ce camp de baraques,
Ces tas de chapiteaux ébauchés et de fûts,
Les herbes, les gros blocs verdis par l'eau des flaques,
Et, brillant aux carreaux, le bric-à-brac confus.
Là s'étalait jadis une ménagerie;
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poem by Charles Baudelaire
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