Quotes about seventh, page 4
The Fyghtynge Seventh
It is the gallant Seventh
It fyghteth faste and free!
God wot the where it fyghteth
I ne desyre to be.
The Gonfalon it flyeth,
Seeming a Flayme in Sky;
The Bugel loud yblowen is,
Which sayeth, Doe and dye!
And (O good Saints defende us
Agaynst the Woes of Warr)
Drawn Tongues are flashing deadly
To smyte the Foeman sore!
With divers kinds of Riddance
The smoaking Earth is wet,
And all aflowe to seaward goe
The Torrents wide of Sweat!
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poem by Ambrose Bierce
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The Seventh Of June
The tiny frogs singing in the roadside drain
And the sky overcast it is looking like rain
And though not in any way cold enough for to snow
The wind from the hill with a chilly breath blow.
The bird who does sing every day of the year
The silvery billed magpie so pleasant to hear
Once heard him one never could hope to get wrong
Familiar to all is his beautiful song.
For the seventh day of June it is not a bad day
And Spring after all is not that far away
In the nearby park I can hear the pee wee
And the sparrows are chirping on the garden tree.
The Autumn is over and Summer long gone
And on the first week of Winter the clock ticking on
The magpie is fluting his beautiful tune
It is not a bad day for the seventh of June.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Unique
A rising star,
Wise men from the East;
A Virgin Lady to her husband with a unique flair,
But this was to be fulfilled.
Raised under unique environment for your love,
And to foretell it before hand;
But the rising star was traced by the Wise Men from the East.
Health, joy, love nad peace;
Of the golden oil to be pour on you,
But held in high esteem to crown the day on this news.
The secrets of the Bible,
Of the seventh malak to speak out loud;
But the army of the horsemen are now in the dark.
Darkness!
We are all in the dark waiting for the light;
Like the message from the seventh messenger.
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poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Eight senses
(poetry in progress)
the world starts out
with a consciousness
half a consciousness
then one consciousness
then they morph with one sense,
ask the mountain
they stand and stand until the
volcanoes start to throw them out
then two senses, ask the trees
and the shrubs criss crossing
with your paths in the field
they stand and stand, take
the sunshine and make green
a colour for continuous evolution
their only shortcoming is their
two sense world, they stand and stand
a state of being, a state of living
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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McGonagall's Ode to the King
Oh! God, I thank Thee for restoring King Edward the Seventh's health again,
And let all his subjects throughout the Empire say Amen;
May God guard him by night and day,
At home and abroad, when he's far away.
May angels guard his bed at night when he lies down,
And may his subjects revere him, and on him do not frown;
May he be honoured by them at home and abroad,
And may he always be protected by the Eternal God.
My blessing on his noble form, and on his lofty head,
May all good angels guard him while living and when dead;
And when the final hour shall come to summons him away,
May his soul be wafted to the realms of bliss I do pray.
Long may he reign, happy and serene,
Also his Queen most beautiful to be seen;
And may God guard his family by night and day,
That they may tread in the paths of virtue and not go astray.
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poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Sabbath, My Love
greet my love with wine and gladsome lay;
Welcome, thrice welcome, joyous Seventh Day!
Six slaves the weekdays are; I share
With them a round of toil and care,
Yet light the burdens seem, I bear
For your sweet sake, Sabbath, my love!
On the First-day to the accustomed task
I go content, nor reward ask,
Save in your smile, at length, to bask --
Day blessed of God, Sabbath, my love!
Is the Second-day dull, the Third-day unbright?
Hide sun and stars from the Fourth-day's sight?
What need I care, who have your light,
Orb of my life, Sabbath, my love!
The Fifth-day, joyful tidings ring:
"The morrow shall your freedom bring!"
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poem by Yehudah HaLevi
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The Seven Sages
The First. My great-grandfather spoke to Edmund Burke
In Grattan's house.
The Second. My great-grandfather shared
A pot-house bench with Oliver Goldsmith once.
The Third. My great-grandfather's father talked of music,
Drank tar-water with the Bishop of Cloyne.
The Fourth. But mine saw Stella once.
The Fifth. Whence came our thought?
The Sixth. From four great minds that hated Whiggery.
The Fifth. Burke was a Whig.
The Sixth. Whether they knew or not,
Goldsmith and Burke, Swift and the Bishop of Cloyne
All hated Whiggery; but what is Whiggery?
A levelling, rancorous, rational sort of mind
That never looked out of the eye of a saint
Or out of drunkard's eye.
The Seventh. All's Whiggery now,
But we old men are massed against the world.
The First. American colonies, Ireland, France and India
Harried, and Burke's great melody against it.
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poem by William Butler Yeats
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Seventh Street
Money burns the pocket, pocket hurts,
Bootleggers in silken shirts,
Ballooned, zooming Cadillacs,
Whizzing, whizzing down the street-car tracks.
Seventh Street is a bastrad of Prohibition and the War. A crude-boned, soft-skinned wedge of nigger life breathing its loafer air, jazz songs and love, thrusting unconscious rhythms, black reddish blood into the white and whitewashed wood of Washington. Stale soggy wood of Washington. Wedges rust in soggy wood. . . Split it! In two! Again! Shred it! . . the sun. Wedges are brilliant in the sun; ribbons of wet wood dry and blow away. Black reddish blood. Pouring for crude-boned soft-skinned life, who set you flowing? Blood suckers of the War would spin in a frenzy of dizziness if they drank your blood. Prohibition would put a stop to it. Who set you flowing? White and whitewash disappear in blood. Who set you flowing? Flowing down the smooth asphalt of Seventh Street, in shanties, brick office buildings, theaters, drug stores, restaurants, and cabarets? Eddying on the corners? Swirling like a blood-red smoke up where the buzzards fly in heaven? God would not dare to suck black red blood. A Nigger God! He would duck his head in shame and call for the Judgement Day. Who set you flowing?
Money burns the pocket, pocket hurts,
Bootleggers in silken shirts,
Ballooned, zooming Cadillacs,
Whizzing, whizzing down the street-car tracks.
poem by Jean Toomer
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7 Things-Miley Cyrus
Vs.1 I probably shouldn't say this,
But at times I get so scared,
When I think about the previous
Relationship we've shared.
It was awesome, but we lost it,
It's not possible for me not to care.
And now we're standing in the rain,
But nothing's ever gonna change until you hear, my dear,
The 7 things I hate about you.
[Chorus]
The 7 things I hate about you, (oh you) .
You're vain, your games, you're insecure,
You love me, you like her,
You make me laugh, you make me cry.
I don't know which side to buy.
Your friends, they're jerks,
And when you act like them, just know it hurts.
I wanna be with the one I know,
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poem by Rebecca Ryan
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Abdul Hameed
As a plan of defence and to reply enemy's attacks
On grenadier's positions, being repeatedly made,
He occupied a vital area in the new defence plan,
A firm hold on that place was essential to sustain.
Serious threat developed, as the enemy attacked
With regiment of tanks, intense artillery preceded;
Shelling so heavily that shells littered every yard,
In defence positions, foe's tanks penetrated forward.
Hamid, commanding a recoilless gun detachment
Seeing gravity, moved to stop the tank regiment
In gun mounted jeep disregarding personal safety,
Taking his position he knocked out a tank of enemy.
Intense enemy shelling and tank fire couldn't deter
His sustained act of bravery knocked out an other;
One by one he knocked out six with accurate fire,
Then changed his position for seventh, with dare.
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poem by S.D. Tiwari
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