Quotes about sill, page 20
Memory's Mansion
In Memory's Mansion are wonderful rooms,
And I wander about them at will;
And I pause at the casements, where boxes of blooms
Are sending sweet scents o'er the sill.
I lean from a window that looks on a lawn;
From a turret that looks on the wave.
But I draw down the shade when I see on some glade
A stone standing guard by a grave.
To Memory's attic I clambered one day
When the roof was resounding with rain,
And there, among relics long hidden away,
I rummaged with heart ache and pain.
A hope long surrendered and covered with dust,
A pastime, out-grown and forgot,
And a fragment of love all corroded with rust,
Were lying heaped up in one spot.
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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Crooked Footpath
AH, here it is! the sliding rail
That marks the old remembered spot,--
The gap that struck our school-boy trail,--
The crooked path across the lot.
It left the road by school and church,
A pencilled shadow, nothing more,
That parted from the silver-birch
And ended at the farm-house door.
No line or compass traced its plan;
With frequent bends to left or right,
In aimless, wayward curves it ran,
But always kept the door in sight.
The gabled porch, with woodbine green,--
The broken millstone at the sill,--
Though many a rood might stretch between,
The truant child could see them still.
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Insomnia:A Sextet
On Reading Cioran
Leaf caught in a branch of ice,
I am unsleeping,
heroic,
neither dead, nor dreaming,
awake.
I exist when I
don't sleep,
it makes me feel
you there,
me watched.
You think because you
are not God,
I don't know you.
But I've been here as long as you,
I know the territory:
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poem by Ioanna Carlsen
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The Beaten Track
Lying in a trance on a rocking chair,
In the living room of my quiet home,
The buzzing sound of a fretful bee,
Woke me up from my pleasant reverie.
Again and again the droning hiss,
Fell faintly in my vacant ear.
It came so close from the window sill,
Fastened tight with glass shutters.
On looking up, I chanced to glance,
A little fly that reeled around,
Trying in vain to find its way,
Through the narrow slit, into the open sky.
For the poor insect trapped inside,
It was all a matter of live or die,
Again and again it beat so hard,
Against the glass window that lay ajar.
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poem by Valsa George
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A ninth in row
I am filled with joy
I want it to be enjoyed
It is special occasion
I want grand celebration
Ordinary man does it ordinarily
I want to do it happily
It is unique day with some importance
I have touched 900 poems at once
I never knew it will touch the mark
I flew in sky and mind had little spark
It was joyous event and moment
I couldn’t remain quiet and silent
Not few words for self praise
It is definitely booster for moral raise
On does it with high aim
There is nothing new to claim
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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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1104 Wintertime Blues
This Poem is dedicated to everyone
who thinks their Town or Village
closes down in Winter!
What has become of my poor Town
Now that the Winter's really is here?
The Cafe tables have been stowed
And all the cars are our of gear!
All the houses have been shuttered
They seem empty - quiet - still
All the gardens are uncluttered
There's no flowers on the sill!
There's less sign of bussling life
On the Town Centre Arcade
Where I'd sit and watch my wife
Haggle with the passing trade!
[...] Read more
poem by John Knight
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A bird at my window
The relentless rain and the whirling winds
The first pushed with violent gusts the other pelt
The windows shutters banged in sound grimed;
The roof’s gutters over brimmed
The two culprits smote the garden bed
The new flowery sprouts in horror knelt
And lay lodged motionless in the ground as dead
I watched and I knew how the shaken flowers felt
The howling gales scud through the flower plots
The rusted nails squeaked on its knots
That held the tree to the gable-wall
All night long under the foul dark pall
The broken shades torn by the winds
Are hanging loose from silver white rings
Uplifted was the clinking thatch
Upon the lonely deserted grange
It is a dark chilly dreary morning
Sun delayed over city with gray sky in mourning
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poem by Isaac Ziv
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A Visit to the Deserted House
Ah! The ties of the golden age have been razed,
Removed by the sharp double edged razor of time,
The whole period swings before my invisible eyes,
The memories spring up like impatient mushrooms,
Out of the heap of memories: undisturbed scrap.
I see the faint, faded image of my mother sitting,
Exhausted on the sill of the door, engrossed,
Absorbed in profound thoughts devising the device,
To encounter the reserved worries of tomorrow;
I see my father sitting on the cot, drowsing leaning,
Against the wall in the sweet sunshine of winter,
And sometime an abrupt snort jerks, awakes him.
I behold my uncle in one corner weaving baskets,
With the mulberry wet flexible sticks bending them,
And twisting, recollecting the strength of all muscles.
I see a few hens clucking in the mud-plastered yard,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Dreams Old
I have opened the window to warm my hands on the sill
Where the sunlight soaks in the stone: the afternoon
Is full of dreams, my love, the boys are all still
In a wistful dream of Lorna Doone.
The clink of the shunting engines is sharp and fine,
Like savage music striking far off, and there
On the great, uplifted blue palace, lights stir and shine
Where the glass is domed in the blue, soft air.
There lies the world, my darling, full of wonder and wistfulness and strange
Recognition and greetings of half-acquaint things, as I greet the cloud
Of blue palace aloft there, among misty indefinite dreams that range
At the back of my life’s horizon, where the dreamings of past lives crowd.
Over the nearness of Norwood Hill, through the mellow veil
Of the afternoon glows to me the old romance of David and Dora,
With the old, sweet, soothing tears, and laughter that shakes the sail
Of the ship of the soul over seas where dreamed dreams lure the unoceaned explorer.
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poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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A easy way to digest
It is easy to digest poison
But can’t sustain the Polson
It is one way of polishing a person
He may not pleased by simple reason
He can understand the real feeling
He can reason out whether it is willing or unwilling
What he needs in life is healing?
No cheating and no concealing
He can pardon any sin
He can accept defeat instead of win
The fact has to be recognized without fail
In absence of it, his ship can run aground and fail
Nothing hurts him most than the treachery
He night have learnt the lesson in archery
The arrows may struck him in the chest
He may sill consider it as reward and best
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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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