Quotes about feign, page 20
After The Play
Father
Have you spent the money I gave you to-day?
John
Ay, father I have.
A fourpence on cakes, two pennies that away
To a beggar I gave.
Father
The lake of yellow brimstone boil for you in Hell,
Such lies that you spin.
Tell the truth now, John, ere the falsehood swell,
Say, where have you been?
John
I'll lie no more to you, father, what is the need?
To the Play I went,
With sixpence for a near seat, money's worth indeed,
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poem by Robert Graves
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Cassandra
O Hymen king.
Hymen, O Hymen king,
what bitter thing is this?
what shaft, tearing my heart?
what scar, what light, what fire
searing my eye-balls and my eyes with flame?
nameless, O spoken name,
king, lord, speak blameless Hymen.
Why do you blind my eyes?
why do you dart and pulse
till all the dark is home,
then find my soul
and ruthless draw it back?
scaling the scaleless,
opening the dark?
speak, nameless, power and might;
when will you leave me quite?
when will you break my wings
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poem by Hilda Doolittle
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If you refuse me once, and think again
If you refuse me once, and think again,
I will complain.
You are deceiv'd, love is no work of art,
It must be got and born,
Not made and worn,
By every one that hath a heart.
Or do you think they more than once can die,
Whom you deny?
Who tell you of a thousand deaths a day,
Like the old poets feign
And tell the pain
They met, but in the common way?
Or do you think 't too soon to yield,
And quit the field?
Nor is that right, they yield that first entreat;
Once one may crave for love,
But more would prove
This heart too little, that too great.
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poem by John Suckling
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Cadland, Southampton River
If ever sea-maid, from her coral cave,
Beneath the hum of the great surge, has loved
To pass delighted from her green abode,
And, seated on a summer bank, to sing
No earthly music; in a spot like this,
The bard might feign he heard her, as she dried
Her golden hair, yet dripping from the main,
In the slant sunbeam.
So the pensive bard
Might image, warmed by this enchanting scene,
The ideal form; but though such things are not,
He who has ever felt a thought refined;
He who has wandered on the sea of life,
Forming delightful visions of a home
Of beauty and repose; he who has loved,
With filial warmth his country, will not pass
Without a look of more than tenderness
On all the scene; from where the pensile birch
Bends on the bank, amid the clustered group
Of the dark hollies; to the woody shore
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poem by William Lisle Bowles
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Love A Mortal Who Writes
This be a farce dictation.
But then,
Love a being who writes
Because a writer
Is a liar.
I will lie about how the
Night flames with the warm waters
But you will never believe me
For I am a liar
With a pen and a paper.
Love a writer
For a writer is a soldier
Regardless of state:
A drunken soldier.
An arrogant soldier.
A morose soldier.
A burning soldier.
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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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The Pro-Consuls
The overfaithful sword returns the user
His heart's desire at price of his heart's blood.
The clamour of the arrogant accuser
Wastes that one hour we needed to make good.
This was foretold of old at our outgoing;
This we accepted who have squandered, knowing,
The strength and glory of our reputations,
At the day's need, as it were dross, to guard
The tender and new-dedicate foundations
Against the sea we fear -- not man's award.
They that dig foundations deep,
Fit for realms to rise upon,
Little honour do they reap
Of their generation,
Any more than mountains gain
Stature till we reach the plain.
With noveil before their face
Such as shroud or sceptre lend --
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Truth And Falsehood. A Tale
Once on a time, in sunshine weather,
Falsehood and Truth walk'd out together,
The neighbouring woods and lawns to view,
As opposites will sometimes do:
Through many a blooming mead they pass'd,
And at a brook arrived at last:
The purling stream, the margin green,
With flowers bedeck'd, a vernal scene,
Invited each itinerant maid
To rest a while beneath the shade;
Under a spreading beech they sat,
And pass'd the time with female chat;
While each her thoughts, the other feign'd.
At length, quoth Falsehood, Sister Truth,
For so she call'd her from her youth,
What if, to shun yon sultry beam,
We bathe in this delightful stream,
The bottom smooth, the water clear,
And there's no prying shepherd near?
With all my heart, the nymph replied,
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poem by Matthew Prior
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Believe
There is more to life,
everything isn't rife
with pain and suffering, we have a purpose, believe
Its already been Christmas eve,
believe... in something greater!
Believe in the Lord God our Creator
why some ask?
to me its still a simple task
and i have my reason, this joy, new life, and purpose all
the fact that with him i do not fall
Believe for your own sake!
He gives generously, the Lord giveth and taketh away
but I have a speical joy! that no man nor creature may ever take
this joy does not simply last for a day
The Lord has blessed me with his joy, one that i cannot explain
one that no other man could copy or feign
a joy that people search their whole lives for....
trying any human activity, any pleasure anything to find looking i became sore
but now God has graciously given it to me asking almost nothing in return
He just asked me to believe, now i ask you,
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poem by David Knox
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The Contretemps
A forward rush by the lamp in the gloom,
And we clasped, and almost kissed;
But she was not the woman whom
I had promised to meet in the thawing brume
On that harbour-bridge; nor was I he of her tryst.
So loosening from me swift she said:
"O why, why feign to be
The one I had meant - to whom I have sped
To fly with, being so sorrily wed,"
'Twas thus and thus that she upbraided me.
My assignation had struck upon
Some others' like it, I found.
And her lover rose on the night anon;
And then her husband entered on
The lamplit, snowflaked, sloppiness around.
"Take her and welcome, man!" he cried:
"I wash my hands of her.
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poem by Thomas Hardy
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Sleep
The nights is an opaque curtain
Asleep solemnly before your eyes
Out shadowing the dark terrors
That basks in the chambers of the heart
An emollient and puissant sine
Sundering the obdurate chains
Where you contend to coil
Denser, closer to the knives
Vulnerably, haplessly cloyed and
Shriveled in the fingertips of fear
Raving in the darkness.
Look in your adamant eyes
The surface, taut, is blind
Look with your iron eyes
Where the fathom, gnarled, is sank
And the vision is deluded
Beyond repair, a lucid dream
That vied to breathe with flesh
And walk with saccharine feet
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poem by Norman Santos
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