Quotes about latch, page 4
It's coming—the postponeless Creature
390
It's coming—the postponeless Creature—
It gains the Block—and now—it gains the Door—
Chooses its latch, from all the other fastenings—
Enters—with a "You know Me—Sir"?
Simple Salute—and certain Recognition—
Bold—were it Enemy—Brief—were it friend—
Dresses each House in Crape, and Icicle—
And carries one—out of it—to God—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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I'm sure you hear it too.
On the wings of darkness
your soul will latch.
darkness knows your heart
has a hole to patch.
It will wait
till you're all alone.
Waiting for the moment
when that guard sinks like stone.
It knows who you are,
where you've been and why.
You can't fight it,
but oh, you can try.
By the light-less moon
your soul shall fall.
You know you hear it-
darkness's call.
poem by Mandy Lee
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The Oft-Repeated Dream
She had no saying dark enough
For the dark pine that kept
Forever trying the window latch
Of the room where they slept.
The tireless but ineffectual hands
That with every futile pass
Made the great tree seem as a little bird
Before the mystery of glass!
It never had been inside the room,
And only one of the two
Was afraid in an oft-repeated dream
Of what the tree might do.
poem by Robert Frost
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Older...
they call it getting older,
i call it rust!
or maybe autumn leaves,
and the promise of snow.
an avalanche in slow motion,
a door that creaks when closed.
a latch on the bedroom window,
ashes that smolder with hope.
a tree fallen across the path,
the old car that turns over,
but wont start.
the plow crusted with dried earth,
the hammer on the shelf.
you and i...
nothing forgotten!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Lover, Come Now...
lover, come now...
before the hands strike,
before the door finally closes,
and the latch is locked.
come now...
as sunlight breaks the window,
the hungry child seeks a nipple,
and shadows create forms.
come now...
the guns are silenced,
bodies left like token prayers.
even the trees bent with longing.
lover, come now...
the bridge rattles and creaks,
the waters suddenly calm,
and the ravens have flown!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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These—saw Visions
758
These—saw Visions—
Latch them softly—
These—held Dimples—
Smooth them slow—
This—addressed departing accents—
Quick—Sweet Mouth—to miss thee so—
This—We stroked—
Unnumbered Satin—
These—we held among our own—
Fingers of the Slim Aurora—
Not so arrogant—this Noon—
These—adjust—that ran to meet us—
Pearl—for Stocking—Pearl for Shoe—
Paradise—the only Palace
Fit for Her reception—now—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Flight
Look back with longing eyes and know that I will follow,
Lift me up in your love as a light wind lifts a swallow,
Let our flight be far in sun or blowing rain --
*But what if I heard my first love calling me again?*
Hold me on your heart as the brave sea holds the foam,
Take me far away to the hills that hide your home;
Peace shall thatch the roof and love shall latch the door --
*But what if I heard my first love calling me once more?*
poem by Sara Teasdale
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Glass Rose (Moan Of The Night)
a glass rose
shattered on the bare floor...
tiny pieces glinting
in the late evening light.
an old photograph,
half burned in the ashtray...
hand on fire,
slips down, fingers enter
where faces disappear.
a small crucifix,
the breeze slips through the window,
picking up the scent,
staggers as if drunk.
the cruelty of the door,
the latch, and the shadow...
[...] Read more
poem by Eric Cockrell
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These Poems
these poems be but the heart born hand,
the oak undressed, the pine that grieves.
the wings of bodies strewn by time,
the scent of flesh, and of blood.
the fire built for the faceless ones,
the sky heavy with storm.
the dreams of the child in red clay dirt,
the sound of the horn just outside sound!
the body wrapped in shadow's grasp.
the vibration deep inside stone.
the window latch broken by the wind,
the light beyond both death and prayer!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Owl
When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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