Quotes about na'ale, page 32
The Secret People
Smile at us, pay us, pass us; but do not quite forget;
For we are the people of England, that never have spoken yet.
There is many a fat farmer that drinks less cheerfully,
There is many a free French peasant who is richer and sadder than we.
There are no folk in the whole world so helpless or so wise.
There is hunger in our bellies, there is laughter in our eyes;
You laugh at us and love us, both mugs and eyes are wet:
Only you do not know us. For we have not spoken yet.
The fine French kings came over in a flutter of flags and dames.
We liked their smiles and battles, but we never could say their names.
The blood ran red to Bosworth and the high French lords went down;
There was naught but a naked people under a naked crown.
And the eyes of the King's Servants turned terribly every way,
And the gold of the King's Servants rose higher every day.
They burnt the homes of the shaven men, that had been quaint and kind,
Till there was no bed in a monk's house, nor food that man could find.
The inns of God where no man paid, that were the wall of the weak.
The King's Servants ate them all. And still we did not speak.
[...] Read more
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
17.46 - A Time Out of Time
17.46
Tornado, windmills rush in their spin,
Whirlwind songs for angels to sing.
I have dropped and fallen and now is the time to rise
I await, besides a half full bottle of ale
Rolling skin after skin together
Mixing my concoctions for the night.
Here, still and calm
I know the storm that gathers upon the horizon and I am ready.
Promising to myself never to be scared when offered the key to the kingdom of shades.
The smell of weekend sweat is embedded into my skin
My hair declares the desire for the kiss of water
Yet I know that tomorrow is the day of my cleansing
Tonight I am red dirt, an un-shirted angel
Flirting with the devil in my heart.
17.59
[...] Read more
poem by David Lacey
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Eclogue The Third
Wouldst thou kenn Nature in her better parte?
Goe, serche the logges and bordels of the hynde ;
Gyfe theye have anie, itte ys roughe-made arte,
Inne hem you see the blakied forme of kynde .
Haveth your mind a lycheynge of a mynde?
Woulde it kenne everich thynge as it mote bee;
Woulde ytte here phrase of the vulgar from the hynde,
Wythoute wiseegger wordes and knowlache free,
Gyf soe, rede thys, whych Iche dysporteynge pende,
Gif nete besyde, yttes rhyme maie ytte commend.
MANNE
Botte whether, fayre mayde do ye goe,
O where do ye bend yer waie?
I wile knowe whether you goe,
I wylle not be asseled naie.
WOMANNE
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Chatterton
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Mistletoe (A Christmas Tale)
A farmer's wife, both young and gay,
And fresh as op'ning buds of May;
Had taken to herself, a Spouse,
And plighted many solemn vows,
That she a faithful mate would prove,
In meekness, duty, and in love!
That she, despising joy and wealth,
Would be, in sickness and in health,
His only comfort and his Friend--
But, mark the sequel,--and attend!
This Farmer, as the tale is told--
Was somewhat cross, and somewhat old!
His, was the wintry hour of life,
While summer smiled before his wife;
A contrast, rather form'd to cloy
The zest of matrimonial joy!
'Twas Christmas time, the peasant throng
Assembled gay, with dance and Song:
[...] Read more
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Everyday Characters II - Quince
Fallentis semita vit*. — Hor.
Near a small village in the West,
Where many very worthy people
Eat, drink, play whist, and do their best
To guard from evil Church and steeple.
There stood — alas! it stands no more! —
A tenement of brick and plaster,
Of which, for forty years and four,
My good friend Quince was lord and master.
Welcome was he in hut and hall
To maids and matrons, peers and peasants ;
He won the sympathies of all
By making puns, and making presents.
Though all the parish were at strife.
He kept his counsel, and his carriage,
He laughed, and loved a quiet life,
And shrank from Chancery suits — and marriage.
[...] Read more
poem by Winthrop Mackworth Praed
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Saint Monica
AMONG deep woods is the dismantled scite
Of an old Abbey, where the chaunted rite,
By twice ten brethren of the monkish cowl,
Was duly sung; and requiems for the soul
Of the first founder: For the lordly chief,
Who flourish'd paramount of many a fief,
Left here a stipend yearly paid, that they,
The pious monks, for his repose might say
Mass and orisons to Saint Monica.
Beneath the falling archway overgrown
With briars, a bench remains, a single stone,
Where sat the indigent, to wait the dole
Given at the buttery; that the baron's soul
The poor might intercede for; there would rest,
Known by his hat of straw with cockles drest,
And staff and humble weed of watchet gray,
The wandering pilgrim; who came there to pray
The intercession of Saint Monica.
Stern Reformation and the lapse of years
[...] Read more
poem by Charlotte Smith
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Metaphysical Sectarian
HE was in Logick a great Critick,
Profoundly skill'd in Analytick.
He could distinguish, and divide
A Hair 'twixt South and South-West side:
On either which he would dispute,
Confute, change hands, and still confute.
He'd undertake to prove by force
Of Argument, a Man's no Horse.
He'd prove a Buzard is no Fowl,
And that a Lord may be an Owl;
A Calf an Alderman, a Goose a Justice,
And Rooks Committee-men and Trustees.
He'd run in Debt by Disputation,
And pay with Ratiocination.
All this by Syllogism, true
In Mood and Figure, he would do.
For Rhetorick, he could not ope
His mouth, but out there flew a Trope:
And when he hapned to break off
[...] Read more
poem by Samuel Butler
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Mine Own John Poynz
Mine own John Poynz, since ye delight to know
The cause why that homeward I me draw,
And flee the press of courts, whereso they go,
Rather than to live thrall under the awe
Of lordly looks, wrappèd within my cloak,
To will and lust learning to set a law:
It is not for because I scorn or mock
The power of them, to whom fortune hath lent
Charge over us, of right, to strike the stroke.
But true it is that I have always meant
Less to esteem them than the common sort,
Of outward things that judge in their intent
Without regard what doth inward resort.
I grant sometime that of glory the fire
Doth twyche my heart. Me list not to report
Blame by honour, and honour to desire.
But how may I this honour now attain,
That cannot dye the colour black a liar?
My Poynz, I cannot from me tune to feign,
To cloak the truth for praise without desert
[...] Read more
poem by David McKee Wright
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Mine Own John Poynz
Mine own John Poynz, since ye delight to know
The cause why that homeward I me draw,
And flee the press of courts, whereso they go,
Rather than to live thrall under the awe
Of lordly looks, wrappèd within my cloak,
To will and lust learning to set a law:
It is not for because I scorn or mock
The power of them, to whom fortune hath lent
Charge over us, of right, to strike the stroke.
But true it is that I have always meant
Less to esteem them than the common sort,
Of outward things that judge in their intent
Without regard what doth inward resort.
I grant sometime that of glory the fire
Doth twyche my heart. Me list not to report
Blame by honour, and honour to desire.
But how may I this honour now attain,
That cannot dye the colour black a liar?
My Poynz, I cannot from me tune to feign,
To cloak the truth for praise without desert
[...] Read more
poem by Sir Thomas Wyatt
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The London Lackpenny
To London once my steps I bent,
Where truth in no wise should be faint;
To Westminster-ward I forthwith went,
To a man of Law to make complaint.
I said, 'For Mary's love, that holy saint,
Pity the poor that would proceed!'
But for lack of money, I could not speed.
And, as I thrust the press among,
By froward chance my hood was gone;
Yet for all that I stayed not long
Till to the King's Bench I was come.
Before the Judge I kneeled anon
And prayed him for God's sake take heed.
But for lack of money, I might not speed.
Beneath them sat clerks a great rout,
Which fast did write by one assent;
There stood up one and cried about
'Richard, Robert, and John of Kent!'
[...] Read more
poem by John Lydgate
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!