Quotes about hover, page 29
The Bereaved One
She sleeps—and I see through a shadowy haze,
Where the hopes of the past and the dreams that I cherished
In the sunlight of brighter and happier days,
As the mists of the morning, have faded and perished.
She sleeps—and will waken to bless me no more;
Her life has died out like the gleam on the river,
And the bliss that illumined my bosom of yore
Has fled from its dwelling for ever and ever.
I had thought in this life not to travel alone,
I had hoped for a mate in my joys and my sorrow—
But the face of my idol is colder than stone,
And my path will be lonely without her to-morrow.
I was hoping to bask in the light of her smile
When Fortune and Fame with their laurels had crown’d me—
But the fire in her eyes has been dying the while,
And the thorns of affliction are planted around me.
There are those that may vent all their grief in their tears
And weep till the past is away in the distance;
But this wreck of the dream of my sunshiny years
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poem by Henry Kendall
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Care Not With Jealousy
faces friends events
memories labyrinth mazes
time encapsulate lives
care not with jealousy
count not the few or many
time slip transcendency
most had another lover
multiple lovers four leaf clover
mind in joy hover cover
first taste love relationships
tender innocence time porous rips
reins embodiment fate slips
why hold passion jealous stubborn fast
to who were memories in your lovers past
bliss times pass sadly cannot always last
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Birdbrain
Streaking, braking, twisting snatching,
Willie Wagtail's insect catching,
acrobatic chatterbox is garbed in black and white.
Overhead a falcon gliding
wheels and dives, hones in, colliding,
nail-gun force in outstretched claws which strike and lock in tight.
Falcon's talons raking feathers,
small-boned bird eludes caged tethers,
spirals down to dropp within a crown of needled pine.
Cradled safe in twiglet fences,
Wagtail blinks, regaining senses,
splintered wing hangs limply from a slashed and bloodied spine.
Wagtails are unused to resting,
soon, the broken bird is testing,
asymmetric fluttering as painful minutes slip.
Drifting, slowly dehydrating,
ants begin investigating;
as they nip, it hops, retreating, reaching pine limb's tip.
Still it watches insects flicking,
body clock's insistent ticking,
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poem by Diane Hine
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Woak Hill
When sycamore leaves wer a-spreaden
Green-ruddy in hedges,
Bezide the red doust o' the ridges,
A-dried at Woak Hill;
I packed up my goods, all a-sheenen
Wi' long years o' handlen,
On dousty red wheels ov a waggon,
To ride at Woak Hill.
The brown thatchen ruf o' the dwellen
I then wer a-leaven,
Had sheltered the sleek head o' Meary,
My bride at Woak Hill.
But now vor zome years, her light voot-vall
'S a-lost vrom the vlooren.
To soon vor my jay an' my childern
She died at Woak Hill.
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poem by Ingeborg Bachmann
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The Love in her eyes lay sleeping
The love in her eyes lay sleeping,
As stars that unconscious shine,
Till, under the pink lids peeping,
I wakened it up with mine;
And we pledged our troth to a brimming oath
In a bumper of blood-red wine.
Alas! too well I know
That it happened long ago;
Those memories yet remain,
And sting, like throbs of pain,
And I'm alone below,
But still the red wine warms, and the rosy goblets glow;
If love be the heart's enslaver,
'Tis wine that subdues the head.
But which has the fairest flavour,
And whose is the soonest shed?
Wine waxes in power in that desolate hour
When the glory of love is dead.
Love lives on beauty's ray,
But night comes after day,
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poem by William Forster
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Fairest! Put on a While
Fairest! put on a while
These pinions of light I bring thee,
And o'er thy own green isle
In fancy let me wing thee.
Never did Ariel's plume,
At golden sunset, hover
O'er scenes so full of bloom
As I shall waft thee over.
Fields, where the Spring delays
And fearlessly meets the ardour
Of the warm Summer's gaze,
With only her tears to guard her;
Rocks, through myrtle boughs
In grace majestic frowning,
Like some bold warrior's brows
That Love hath just been crowning.
Islets, so freshly fair,
That never hath bird come nigh them,
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poem by Thomas Moore
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Beautiful drought!
Windy Windy Windy the wind sung!
This marked the beginning of the dry spell
This marked the beginning of death for beautiful cattle
This marked the beginning of the dry river bed
The beautiful countryside turned brown
Turrr Turrr Turrr Turrr rota sung!
The beautiful drought attracted it to the dusty village
The beautiful helicopter landed greeted by dust
The beautiful cameras came out black and shinning
The beautiful face of mum faced up looking at their water bottle
Click Click Click Click cameras sung!
This one will make a good front page picture
This one is even better because she is beautiful
This one is so thin and has no cloths on but traditional beads
This one is the dying beauty that will make newspapers sell
Turrr Turrr Turrr Turrr rota sung!
The beautiful journalists hopped in happily
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poem by Nyota Yasulwe
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That bit of pinky stuff on the carpet
What is it doing on the clean carpet,
that bit of pink something?
Not a curse upon the house-proud
nor a criticising comment on the housekeeper,
or retribution for the gap under the front door,
or – it it’s blown in from the garden –
a hint of early autumn threatening poetic sadness
or a reminder of the fragile evanescence of all things
it is a whisper from God
which has eluded the debris whirling between stars,
the heat of the sun, its solar dust,
the icy-cold of atmospheres,
airless space of ether,
antennae of early-warning systems,
hover of spy-planes,
click and silent breath of listening devices,
tick tick tick of incriminating tapes recording,
unforgiving eye of spy cameras,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Rhymer’s Reply. Incense And Splendor
Incense and Splendor haunt me as I go.
Though my good works have been, alas, too few,
Though I do naught, High Heaven comes down to me,
And future ages pass in tall review.
I see the years to come as armies vast,
Stalking tremendous through the fields of time.
MAN is unborn. To-morrow he is born,
Flame-like to hover o’er the moil and grime,
Striving, aspiring till the shame is gone,
Sowing a million flowers, where now we mourn—
Laying new, precious pavements with a song,
Founding new shrines, the good streets to adorn.
I have seen lovers by those new-built walls
Clothed like the dawn in orange, gold and red.
Eyes flashing forth the glory-light of love
Under the wreaths that crowned each royal head.
Life was made greater by their sweetheart prayers.
Passion was turned to civic strength that day—
Piling the marbles, making fairer domes
With zeal that else had burned bright youth away.
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poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Friendship with romance!
So you want a piece of my
Rosy, cushy, juicy pie
I’m afraid, without romance on supply
This refined lady is not going to comply
Before into my world
You make your entrance
Remember this lady loves romance
So how about friendship with romance
Maybe you may stand a chance
Send me sweet roses once in a while
Make it your number one style
I need you now, not as a lover
If that is your immediate aim
You’ll be sucked out of my life with a hover
So how about friendship with romance
Now and then, take me out to dance
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poem by Sylvia Chidi
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