Quotes about na'ale, page 27
Ballade De Marguerite (Normande)
I am weary of lying within the chase
When the knights are meeting in market-place.
Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town
Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down.
But I would not go where the Squires ride,
I would only walk by my Lady's side.
Alack! and alack! thou art overbold,
A Forester's son may not eat off gold.
Will she love me the less that my Father is seen
Each Martinmas day in a doublet green?
Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie,
Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.
Ah, if she is working the arras bright
I might ravel the threads by the fire-light.
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poem by Oscar Wilde
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The Root Cause
Where is there ever a place for somebody like me?
Dead inside.
A shadow creeps along the riverside.
Can you even gives this creature a name?
A man with not a single claim.
A renouncement to all the shackles and chains.
Let god do his worst.
Let god do his best.
It doesn't matter because my soul is already at rest.
My hands have long been washed cleaned.
In a world so cut throat.
I'm not here to destroy.
I'm not here to shatter fragile dreams.
I'm not at war with anybody.
The complete embodiment of peace.
Wishing the best for the soon to be deceased.
Let god do his worst.
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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga of King Olaf XIV. -- The Crew Of The Long Serpent
Safe at anchor in Drontheim bay
King Olaf's fleet assembled lay,
And, striped with white and blue,
Downward fluttered sail and banner,
As alights the screaming lanner;
Lustily cheered, in their wild manner,
The Long Serpent's crew.
Her forecastle man was Ulf the Red,
Like a wolf's was his shaggy head,
His teeth as large and white;
His beard, of gray and russet blended,
Round as a swallow's nest descended;
As standard-bearer he defended
Olaf's flag in the fight.
Near him Kolbiorn had his place,
Like the King in garb and face,
So gallant and so hale;
Every cabin-boy and varlet
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Ballade De Marguerite
(NORMANDE.)
I AM weary of lying within the chase
When the knights are meeting in market-place.
Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town
Lest the hooves of the war-horse tread thee down.
But I would not go where the Squires ride,
I would only walk by my Lady's side.
Alack! and alack! thou art over bold,
A Forester's son may not eat off gold.
Will she love me the less that my Father is seen,
Each Martinmas day in a doublet green?
Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie,
Spindle and loom are not meet for thee.
[...] Read more
poem by Oscar Wilde
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The Gun
He'd been on the grog the night before,
He woke with this morning needing a score.
His numbers had been down of late,
Today he needed a number great.
His alarm rang with the shriek of a banshee,
His fist hammered down on it like a falling gum tree.
The alarm sounded against the corrugated wall,
He jerked awake and sat on the side of the bed tall.
Stumbling toward the water-tank his braces hung low,
He broke the ice with his hand splashed his hair of snow.
The chilled water was minimally applied to his face,
Braces up and just about all was in place
A quick breakfast of toast, porridge, eggs and bacon,
The usual 6 sugars and tea were taken.
Hands cupped his mug as the team walked the rutted soil.
The shed awaited and yarded sheep for a day of toil.
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poem by R.K. Hart
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The Daft-days
Now mirk December's dowie face
Glours our the rigs wi' sour grimace,
While, thro' his minimum of space,
The bleer-ey'd sun
Wi' blinkin light and stealing pace,
His race doth run.
From naked groves nae birdie sings,
To shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings,
The breeze nae od'rous flavour brings
From Borean cave,
And dwyning nature droops her wings,
Wi' visage grave.
Mankind but scanty pleasure glean
Frae snawy hill or barren plain,
Whan Winter, 'midst his nipping train,
Wi' frozen spear,
Sends drift owr a' his bleak domain,
And guides the weir.
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poem by Robert Fergusson
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Ode--'On A Distant Prospect' Of Making A Fortune
Now the 'rosy morn appearing'
Floods with light the dazzled heaven;
And the schoolboy groans on hearing
That eternal clock strike seven:-
Now the waggoner is driving
Towards the fields his clattering wain;
Now the bluebottle, reviving,
Buzzes down his native pane.
But to me the morn is hateful:
Wearily I stretch my legs,
Dress, and settle to my plateful
Of (perhaps inferior) eggs.
Yesterday Miss Crump, by message,
Mentioned 'rent,' which 'p'raps I'd pay;'
And I have a dismal presage
That she'll call, herself, to-day.
Once, I breakfasted off rosewood,
Smoked through silver-mounted pipes -
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poem by Charles Stuart Calverley
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To Phillis, To Love And Live With Him
TO PHILLIS, TO LOVE AND LIVE WITH HIM
Live, live with me, and thou shalt see
The pleasures I'll prepare for thee:
What sweets the country can afford
Shall bless thy bed, and bless thy board.
The soft sweet moss shall be thy bed,
With crawling woodbine over-spread:
By which the silver-shedding streams
Shall gently melt thee into dreams.
Thy clothing next, shall be a gown
Made of the fleeces' purest down.
The tongues of kids shall be thy meat;
Their milk thy drink; and thou shalt eat
The paste of filberts for thy bread
With cream of cowslips buttered:
Thy feasting-table shall be hills
With daisies spread, and daffadils;
Where thou shalt sit, and Red-breast by,
For meat, shall give thee melody.
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poem by Robert Herrick
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The Alchemists Kitchen
The Alchemist's kitchen
Riddled with dragons,
Symbolism lost to the erosion of time
Swealtering heat brings your pulse to the fore,
Feel the essense of life pounding in your eardrums.
Beat to the rhythm, Your wings may lift you if you try
Your songs, angels will sing for you if your cry.
Everything is lost, Still everything is shown, Woven threads by a hand unknown, incomprehensable to those that dwell too long in their science, be it art or the workings of the cosmos. The universe as one, unity, what is known by the void will be shown to those who do not dwell too long in practice, cease the reigns. Ride, Rise, Rose.
To lie, Embrace the shimmering glades,
Swooning inwards seemlessly,
Below the waning moon, dancing in the shade
Turning inward dreamily
Feed the daemon so we may feast, upon a hearty meal, upon the ale of yeast, Not least so we may slay the daemon to feed a thousand souls with the carcass of a beasts no one knows, knew as well as I, flesh torn from the hide. So far as he was, detached from the norm, still retaining a calm you'd least expect to rule the eye of the storm.
Dreams on sunken solitude, seem to feed an attitude of remorse for a life we moarn that has not yet passed.
Systematic malfunctions, Telepathic junctions, stuck in a jam, straight out of the frying pan into the fire.
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poem by David Lacey
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Theory And Practice
The man of God stands, on the Sabbath-day,
Warning the sinners from the broad highway
That leads to death. He rolls his pious eye,
And tells how wily demons hidden lie
To spring upon the thoughtless souls who pass
Along. He lifts his hands, and cries, 'Alas!
That such things be! O sinners! pause;
Gird on God's armor; let the devil see
Thou hast espoused a high and holy cause,
And all his arts are powerless on thee.'
'Tis thus the man of God in warning cries,
And tears of heart-felt sorrow fill his eyes;
And then he doffs his surplice and his gown,
And calls for wine to wash his sorrow down.
Ah! follower of the meek and lowly One,
And is it thus that thou wouldst have men shun
The road to death? Is this the better way,
Of which thou tellest on the Sabbath-day?
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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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