Quotes about The hunt, page 3
La Jolie Rousse
Me voici devant tous un homme plein de sens
Connaissant la vie et de la mort ce qu'un vivant peut
connaître
Ayant éprouvé les douleurs et les joies de l'amour
Ayant su quelquefois imposer ses idées
Connaissant plusieurs langages
Ayant pas mal voyagé
Ayant vu la guerre dans l'Artillerie et l'Infanterie
Blessé à la tête trépané sous le chloroforme
Ayant perdu ses meilleurs amis dans l'effroyable lutte
Je sais d'ancien et de nouveau autant qu'un homme seul
pourrait des deux savoir
Et sans m'inquiéter aujourd'hui de cette querre
Entre nous et pour nous mes amis
Je juge cette longue querelle de la tradition et de l'invention
De l'Ordre et de l'Aventure
Vous dont la bouche est faite à l'image de celle de Dieu
Bouche qui est l'ordre même
Soyez indulgents quand vous nous comparez
[...] Read more
poem by Guillaume Apollinaire
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Elegy II: The Anagram
Marry, and love thy Flavia, for, ſhee
Hath all things, whereby others beautious bee,
For, though her eyes be ſmall, her mouth is great,
Though they be Ivory, yet her teeth be jeat,
Though they be dimme, yet ſhe is light enough,
And though her harſh haire fall, her skinne is rough;
What though her cheeks be yellow, her haire's red,
Give her thine, and ſhe hath a maydenhead.
Theſe things are beauties elements, where theſe
Meet in one, that one muſt, as perfect, pleaſe.
If red and white and each good quality
Be in thy wench, ne'r aske where it doth lye.
In buying things perfum'd, we aske; if there
Be muske and amber in it, but not where.
Though all her parts be not in th'uſuall place,
She'hath yet an Anagram of a good face.
If we might put the letters but one way,
In the leane dearth of words, what could wee ſay?
When by the Gamut ſome Muſitions make
A perfect ſong, others will undertake,
[...] Read more
poem by John Donne
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Excerpt from Speke, Parrot
Parotte.
So many morall maters,* and so lytell vsyd ;
So myche newe makyng,* and so madd tyme spente ;
So myche translacion in to Englyshe confused ;
So myche nobyll prechyng, and so lytell amendment ;
So myche consultacion, almoste to none entente ;
So myche provision, and so lytell wytte at nede ;—
Syns Dewcalyons flodde there can no clerkes rede.
So lytyll dyscressyon, and so myche reasonyng ;
So myche hardy dardy, and so lytell manlynes ;
So prodigall expence, and so shamfull reconyng ;
So gorgyous garmentes, and so myche wrechydnese ;
So myche portlye pride, with pursys penyles
So myche spente before, and so myche vnpayd behynde ;—
Syns Dewcalyons flodde there can no clerkes fynde.
So myche forcastyng, and so farre an after dele ;
So myche poletyke pratyng, and so lytell stondythe* in stede ;
So lytell secretnese, and so myche grete councell ;
[...] Read more
poem by John Skelton
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Serendipity in the Serengeti
Embattled heart
In the trappings of melancholy
Searching for a light
Steadfast, looming large
Like a Lion's mane glistening in the twilight
Searching for a trapdoor of fate
To be written in the manuscripts of time
As a survivor, wounded yet gallant
The heart of a lion tugged by the vines of destiny
To hunt in the path of hope's glimmer
Shining forth like the Sun's rays scattering
To the grottoes of a den of bleeding lions
For the mane to be one with her destiny, the looming sun
To hunt in the prosperity of an untamed heart
As the lion in you re-awakes to hunt like his ancestors
To rekindle the fires of his hearth
To transcend caverns of melancholy
To the eternal sunshine of an endless savannah
Serendipity in the Serengeti
poem by Dilantha Gunawardana
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The Wolf Pack
Some hunt at dusk
Some hunt at dawn
We hunt at any time
At our Alpha's howl
We all join in
A prolonged, mournful sound
Then we rise, stretch and scratch
And howl some more
To discover whereabouts
The other packs are running
The caribou are on the move
Tired from their journey
Off we lope at a steady pace
Now's the time for feasting
But first to catch our prey
Noses high, we sniff the wind
For the scent of that sweating meal
Our luck is in, for here they come
We did not have far to run
We watch, we wait, patient now
[...] Read more
poem by Marilyn Shepperson
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How Are You, My Friend Who Drunk By Song?
~lp~
how are you, my friend who drunk by song?
the outside weather is not good
reluctant to leave the house
while the cable television broadcast of anxiety
perforated shipwreck
wind out of the nest with the birds
'hunt down the song let it be a poem' you said
but I can not forget
that authenticity is a rose in a vase
faithful wife whether to replace the water?
authenticity is not a pet dog
lost howled every night
but a tears every time the lovers hands who warned
sheet to be filled by daily struggle
[...] Read more
poem by Imam Setiaji Ronoatmojo
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A Runnable Stag
When the pods went pop on the broom, green broom,
And apples began to be golden-skinn'd,
We harbour'd a stag in the Priory coomb,
And we feather'd his trail up-wind, up-wind,
We feather'd his trail up-wind-
A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag,
A runnable stag, a kingly crop,
Brow, bay and tray and three on top,
A stag, a runnable stag.
Then the huntsman's horn rang yap, yap yap,
And 'Forwards' we heard the harbourer shout;
But 'twas only a brocket that broke a gap
In the beechen underwood, driven out,
From the underwood antler'd out
By warrant and might of the stag, the stag,
The runnable stag, whose lordly mind
Was bent on sleep though beam'd and tined
He stood, a runnable stag
[...] Read more
poem by John Davidson
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Ogyges
Stand out, swift-footed leaders of the horns,
And draw strong breath, and fill the hollowy cliff
With shocks of clamour, — let the chasm take
The noise of many trumpets, lest the hunt
Should die across the dim Aonian hills,
Nor break through thunder and the surf-white cave
That hems about the old-eyed Ogyges
And bars the sea-wind, rain-wind, and the sea!
Much fierce delight hath old-eyed Ogyges
(A hairless shadow in a lion’s skin)
In tumult, and the gleam of flying spears,
And wild beasts vexed to death; “for,” sayeth he,
“Here lying broken, do I count the days
For every trouble; being like the tree —
The many-wintered father of the trunks
On yonder ridges: wherefore it is well
To feel the dead blood kindling in my veins
At sound of boar or battle; yea to find
A sudden stir, like life, about my feet,
And tingling pulses through this frame of mine
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poem by Henry Kendall
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How Are The Weak Free?
They will hunt again.
With years to plan.
And sharpen their teeth.
But no one knows, no one knows.
Free the wolf from his cage.
Watch him hunt, stalk his prey.
We let them go.
They will hunt again.
Prey on the simple.
Feast in the temple.
Free the wolf?
We must put him down.
We'll put him down again.
Our protectors hide and grin.
song performed by Zao
Added by Lucian Velea
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Wahonomin
GREAT mother! from the depths of forest wilds,
From mountain pass and burning sunset plain,
We, thine unlettered children of the woods,
Upraise to thee the everlasting hymn
Of nature, language of the skies and seas,
5
Voice of the birds and sighing of the pine
In wintry wastes. We know none other tongue,
Nor the smooth speech that, like the shining leaves,
Hides the rough stems beneath. We bring our song,
Wood-fragrant, rough, yet autumn-streaked with love,
10
And lay it as a tribute at thy feet.
But should it vex thee thus to hear us sing,
Sad in the universal joy that crowns
This year of years, and shouldst thou deem our voice
But death-cry of the ages that are past,
15
Bear with us—say, "My children of the woods,
In language learnt from bird and wood and stream,
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poem by Frederick George Scott
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