Quotes about hover, page 21
A Story To Tell....
the images of light
like needles from the sun this morning
actually, there are no threads
and nothing to sew
actually, there are no significances
except some few
every word must have a story for you
and you may ask me
but always i agree to disagree with you
words have their own lives their own existence
i am only a vehicle
i am only a body to this ghost
for we are nothing but wings of some black birds
that hover on our backs
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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At the Church-Gate
Although I enter not,
Yet round about the spot,
Ofttimes I hover,
And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.
The minster-bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,
And noise and humming;
They've hushed the minster-bell,
The organ 'gins to swell, --
She's coming, -- coming!
My lady comes at last,
Timid and stepping fast,
And hastening hither,
With modest eyes downcast;
She comes, -- she's here, -- she's past;
May heaven go with her!
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poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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Kaare's song
KAARE
What wakens the billows, while sleeps the wind?
What looms in the west released?
What kindles the stars, ere day's declined,
Like fires for death's dark feast?
ALL
God aid thee here, our earl,
God aid thee here, our earl,
It is Helga, who comes unto Orkney.
KAARE
What drives the fierce dragon to ride the foam,
While billows with blood are red?
The sea-fowl are shrieking, they seek their home,
And hover around my head.
ALL
God aid thee here, our earl,
God aid thee here, our earl,
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poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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The Shadow of Extinction
Numerous hawks, hapless and helpless
Are sitting downcast on the ground
Amid the dry leafless forest,
Discarding the high zone of their flight.
Their eyes are impressionless,
Wings clipped and tails curtailed,
Their claws: the hunting instruments
Cramped and contracted inward.
They are drowsing and nodding,
In a state of oblivion,
As forgetfulness to the ancient history.
Around them is a conflagration
Engulfing the woods,
The agent of autumnal wind assists the blaze,
The circle is belittling at each moment;
But the hawks with the wings clipped
Tails curtailed, contracted claws
Drowsing eyes, nodding heads,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Seafarer's Diary; Berceuse: #5
The daylight beckons
Like a frail beacon:
A tired sentry
Unabashed from this onslaught.
I sift
From pandemonium of the waves
To the stillness of the slumbers
Away from the sea, girdled
To my musical floor.
The sea languidly harrows
As I unlatch my boat
And proceed to the treacherous sea
To sustain my being
And to test the morose waters…
And suddenly,
I feel nothing
And perhaps that is the secret to clemency:
A clandestine fortitude!
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poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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Torture Of Repetition
I'm not one to accept a gift.
Your offer is just to good to be true.
In terms written that I have yet to understand.
The good lord has a list of names.
In heaven as my stage.
A marches final count down.
Surrounded by the warmth of the flame.
Let me follow the rocky path of a guided light.
A decision has to be made.
And I'm so afraid.
What if it is not right.
Hesitation is my abrasion.
And it has skinned my knees raw.
The crow encircles my frozen body speaking in his caws.
He's waiting for me to make my move.
The stench of death must hover in this stale air.
I'm telling you that won't be me.
No it won't be.
Not by choice.
I will never surrender.
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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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The Doves Of Venus
The dull earth swung in silence o’er,
A dreamless world, a dreary star,
Until the doves of Venus bore
To Thessaly her ivory car.
She whispered to the sea and air,
And lightly with her wand she smote
The solid earth, till everywhere
The birds gave forth a sweeter note.
Whereat the sun did brighter shine,
More richly did the roses blow,
And like deep peace, a joy divine
Did fill the souls of men below.
And still are showered her magic arts
On man and maiden hand in hand,
Who hear a music in their hearts
Which none but they can understand.
A sweeter perfume sheds the rose,
A deeper azure tints the sky,
And softly with the daylight’s close
The doves of Venus hover nigh.
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poem by George Essex Evans
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Garden Sunshine
GARDEN SUNSHINE
Garden which wild wilderness attested
Awash with colours now greets eye-in-dream.
Rich profusion prospers unprotested,
Dragonflies hover, honeybees here teem,
Enchants with wonder, pleasure uncontested,
Nature's splendour welcoming sun's beam.
SUNdry blooms here groomed, there random seem,
SHINE, rain, remain inspiring and unbested.
Grass lawn graceful, verdant, uncongested,
Assuages anguish. Nearby silver stream
Rich irrigation adds, as swan, glebe crested
Drift on lazy current. Joy supreme.
Evergreen and annuals unmolested
No high walls know, turn mind from urban theme.
SUNset scarlets, strawberry dawn scheme
SHIft NEts of light, draw cheerful robin nested.
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Well Deserved, Tara
An ipod for Tara is the least they can do
but I'm sorry that no one would give me a clue.
Did she win it in England or the world as a stage
was her poem a lovesong or expression of rage?
There are few who send tingles across oceans of foam
from their gray and depressing small chambers at home.
But this girl is a treasure that has stayed in the shade
to watch regiments march until all prayers fade.
I do wish I could be that tall angel who would
serve and always protect her the best that I could.
I would hover and watch there at ten thousand feet
and my thoughts would be dreaming that some day we'll meet.
Now, I hope you don't get here an impression that's wrong
it's poetic in nature, like a nightingale's song.
As my mentor old Johann, used to ponti-fi-cate
do not keep in your praise, it will soon be too late.
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Little Waxy
Wake, little Waxy! Hunting-time again,
The short days and goodly, the clean Autumn rain:
In the old North country, in the grey open weather,
Hounds upon the moorland chiming all together.
This year in dough and hollow the stream's song sounds the same:
On every windy hillside the grasses burn like flame:
Where the empty air is loud with the peewit's lonely crying
And the call o' the moorland gale to the bird's call replying.
Wake, little Waxy! Voices that you know
Set the upland ringing where the hill-breezes blow;
In the brave North country, in the grey open weather,
Up and Join the chorus, hound and horn together!
Ah, little Waxy! Hunting days are done,
Nevermore the brown field and the rain and the sun -
Only the memories left, o'er the Autumn fields that hover,
Of the brave runs ended, lass, the good days over!
poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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