Quotes about hover, page 26
Sylph's Song
Fly with me, my mortal love!
Oh! haste to realms of purer day,
Where we form the morning dew,
And the rainbow's varied hue,
And give the sun each golden ray!
Oh! stay no more
On this earthly shore,
Where Joy is sick of the senseless crew;
But taste the bliss we prove,
In the starry plains above,
Queens of the meads of ether blue.
When the moon is riding high,
And trembles in the lake below,—
Then we hover in its ray,
And amid the sparkles play,
While rippling waves of silver flow.
As pure and bright
As that gleaming light:
We watch the eddying circle's bound,
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poem by Louisa Stuart Costello
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Holloween poem
She loves to move alone over cold water,
She knows to move over the dark, cold water;
She loves to toss a coin into the cold, dark water,
To know it is lost beneath the water,
To later know it alone beneath the dark water.
Under the city, in the dark,
Water flows over perpetual rock.
She knows her tower above the city,
She loves to hover over the city, to see
The marrow pulse and glow, she knows
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poem by Rozen Maiden
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The Reapers In Autumn
Soon as the morning trembles o'er the sky,
And unperceived, unfolds the spreading day;
Before the ripen'd field the reapers stand,
In fair array.
At once they stoop and swell the lusty sheaves;
While through their cheerful band the rural talk,
The rural scandal, and the rural jest,
Fly harmless, to deceive the tedious time,
And steal unfelt the sultry hours away.
Behind, the master walks, builds up the shocks:
And, conscious, glancing oft on every side
His sated eye, feels his heart heave with joy.
The gleaners spread around, and here and there,
Spike after spike, their scanty harvest pick.
Be not too narrow, husbandman! but fling
From the full sheaf, with charitable stealth,
The liberal handful. Think, oh think!
How good the God of harvest is to you,
Who pours abundance o'er your flowing fields;
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poem by James Thomson
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Birds
The fierce musical cries of a couple of sparrowhawks hunting
on the headland,
Hovering and darting, their heads northwestward,
Prick like silver arrows shot through a curtain the noise of the
ocean
Trampling its granite; their red backs gleam
Under my window around the stone corners; nothing gracefuller,
nothing
Nimbler in the wind. Westward the wave-gleaners,
The old gray sea-going gulls are gathered together, the northwest
wind wakening
Their wings to the wild spirals of the wind-dance.
Fresh as the air, salt as the foam, play birds in the bright wind,
fly falcons
Forgetting the oak and the pinewood, come gulls
From the Carmel sands and the sands at the river-mouth, from
Lobos and out of the limitless
Power of the mass of the sea, for a poem
Needs multitude, multitudes of thoughts, all fierce, all flesh-eaters,
musically clamorous
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poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Charm, The
In darkness the loud sea makes moan;
And earth is shaken, and all evils creep
About her ways.
Oh, now to know you sleep!
Out of the whirling blinding moil, alone,
Out of the slow grim fight,
One thought to wing -- to you, asleep,
In some cool room that's open to the night
Lying half-forward, breathing quietly,
One white hand on the white
Unrumpled sheet, and the ever-moving hair
Quiet and still at length! . . .
Your magic and your beauty and your strength,
Like hills at noon or sunlight on a tree,
Sleeping prevail in earth and air.
In the sweet gloom above the brown and white
Night benedictions hover; and the winds of night
Move gently round the room, and watch you there.
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poem by Rupert Brooke
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If I Win Tattslotto
If I win Tattslotto I'd travel far away
I'd visit South America home of mara and rhea
I'd buy a working Llama, I'd climb the mountain track
And Llama close behind me my luggage on his back.
Above the Andean mountains the hunting condor fly
For hours on end on windless day he hover in the sky
I'd travel this vast continent four thousand miles or more
The plains of Argentina the hills of Ecuador.
I would boat on the Amazon through forests of Brazil
Through deep and silent waters where one mistake can kill
Where lurk the small pirhana the cruelest killer known
A school of them in minutes would eat man to the bone.
The jungles of the jaguar the silent beast of prey
He hunt in darkened forest and hide from lamp of day
The fearless harpy eagle he fill his empty craw
On meat of forest dwellers the monkey and macaw.
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poem by Francis Duggan
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The Charm
In darkness the loud sea makes moan;
And earth is shaken, and all evils creep
About her ways.
Oh, now to know you sleep!
Out of the whirling blinding moil, alone,
Out of the slow grim fight,
One thought to wing - to you, asleep,
In some cool room that's open to the night
Lying half-forward, breathing quietly,
One white hand on the white
Unrumpled sheet, and the ever-moving hair
Quiet and still at length! . . .
Your magic and your beauty and your strength,
Like hills at noon or sunlight on a tree,
Sleeping prevail in earth and air.
In the sweet gloom above the brown and white
Night benedictions hover; and the winds of night
Move gently round the room, and watch you there.
[...] Read more
poem by Rupert Brooke (1909)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A blinking night Firefly
as the night dawn the darkest eve,
I lay down and watch the Firefly that
fly the whole night, with its blinking light
hover amidst the chilled winter prose
lucky I am, the night call the whispering
silent of tired body after a long day of
exhaustion of work; settle with knees cover
a little blanket, hold me to mute, watching
as it flies near to my bedside cloister
it's wings brings vents in my face, waking
me up to ponder, in my lightning speed of
the daytime sweat; slow as to remember,
yet to fast to forget, knowing that all seems
easy to file on my nocturnal memories
oh! come now my sleep, the firefly makes
my night complete and the wings shared me
to fly for another morning waits me for a
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poem by Antonio Liao
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Walking Through the Upper East Side
All over the district, on leather couches
& brocade couches, on daybeds
& 'professional divans,' they are confessing.
The air is thick with it,
the ears of analysts must be sticky.
Words fill the air above couches & hover there
hanging like smog. I imagine
impossible Steinberg scrolls,
unutterable sounds suspended in inked curlicues
while the Braque print & the innocuous Utrillo
look on look on look on.
My six analysts for example-
the sly Czech who tucked his shoelaces
under the tongues of his shoes,
the mistress of social work with orange hair,
the famous old german who said:
'You sink, zerefore you are,'
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poem by Erica Jong
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Crystal Clear
Moss covered stones line the river’s edge,
thus there is no need to dredge.
Water’s flowing swiftly on its way,
for it cannot ever stay.
A prying vole peeps, sussing the scene,
with his nose alert and keen.
He ventures forth to forage about,
far from his discreet hideout.
But shy is he, when disturbed he’ll flee.
sanctioning no scrutiny.
I see insects, they all please the eyes,
ladybirds and butterflies.
Swarms of gnats gyrate and pirouette,
above playful ripples, wet.
May flies hover in the warming sun,
as their forerunners have done.
Buzzing bees searching for nectar new,
among the wild flowers, pursue.
Grasshoppers jumping around my feet,
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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