Quotes about colour, page 5
The Zenana
WHAT is there that the world hath not
Gathered in yon enchanted spot?
Where, pale, and with a languid eye,
The fair Sultana listlessly
Leans on her silken couch, and dreams
Of mountain airs, and mountain streams.
Sweet though the music float around,
It wants the old familiar sound;
And fragrant though the flowers are breathing,
From far and near together wreathing,
They are not those she used to wear,
Upon the midnight of her hair.—
She's very young, and childhood's days
With all their old remembered ways,
The empire of her heart contest
With love, that is so new a guest;
When blushing with her Murad near,
Half timid bliss, half sweetest fear,
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poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Lancelot And Elaine
Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable,
Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat,
High in her chamber up a tower to the east
Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot;
Which first she placed where the morning's earliest ray
Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam;
Then fearing rust or soilure fashioned for it
A case of silk, and braided thereupon
All the devices blazoned on the shield
In their own tinct, and added, of her wit,
A border fantasy of branch and flower,
And yellow-throated nestling in the nest.
Nor rested thus content, but day by day,
Leaving her household and good father, climbed
That eastern tower, and entering barred her door,
Stript off the case, and read the naked shield,
Now guessed a hidden meaning in his arms,
Now made a pretty history to herself
Of every dint a sword had beaten in it,
And every scratch a lance had made upon it,
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poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Fifth Book
AURORA LEIGH, be humble. Shall I hope
To speak my poems in mysterious tune
With man and nature,–with the lava-lymph
That trickles from successive galaxies
Still drop by drop adown the finger of God,
In still new worlds?–with summer-days in this,
That scarce dare breathe, they are so beautiful?–
With spring's delicious trouble in the ground
Tormented by the quickened blood of roots.
And softly pricked by golden crocus-sheaves
In token of the harvest-time of flowers?–
With winters and with autumns,–and beyond,
With the human heart's large seasons,–when it hopes
And fears, joys, grieves, and loves?–with all that strain
Of sexual passion, which devours the flesh
In a sacrament of souls? with mother's breasts,
Which, round the new made creatures hanging there,
Throb luminous and harmonious like pure spheres?–
With multitudinous life, and finally
With the great out-goings of ecstatic souls,
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poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
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V. Count Guido Franceschini
Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,
I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down
Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,
Fortified by the sip of … why, 't is wine,
Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,
So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!
Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head
To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.
How cautious and considerate … aie, aie, aie,
Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart
An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack: all's over now,
And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:
If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,
The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,
Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,
Being past my prime of life, and out of health.
In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.
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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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The true colour of life is the colour of the body, the colour of the covered red, the implicit and not explicit red of the living heart and the pulses. It is the modest colour of the unpublished blood.
quote by Alice Meynell
Added by Lucian Velea
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Colour of Happiness
The colour of anger is Red
Frustration connubial to Dread
The colour of love is Purple
Sanguine to Aphrodite's myrtle
The colour of life is green
Freshly mixed with infused submarine
But the colour of happiness is transparent
A viscous antonym of denotation
and I am the colours Souvenir
Cheap, artefact of a personas facsimile
poem by Kevin Patrick
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Black African
African I'm
screaming for my colour
shining like gold
but diamond
when the sun arrived
God begged me
just for the black colour
to create a sacred night
beautiful but a man
black and shine
explorers called me spirit
thus all i wear
goes with me
ever around the bank
the coast smile
for my beauty
thus amendment of Africa
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poem by alfusainey Sonko
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Reflects The Soul
Your eyes are like a mirror
that reflects your soul.
Some eyes are dark as cobalt
and reflect the deed they do.
Others are a shade of gold
reflect a heart that cares.
While others reflect great sadness
from ill treatment somewhere.
Whatever colour are your eyes
it is not the colour of your soul.
Some people with dark eyes
as jet black as the night.
Hold the gentlest touch
when it comes to others of mankind.
The colour of your eyes
is never an indication to your soul.
It is only passed the colour
does that reflect the soul.
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poem by David Harris
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Rising With The Morning
Colour me bright yellow, so I reflect the sun,
Let me sink down gently when the day is done,
Rising with the morning, summer's warmth inbue,
Shining with the happiness of always loving you.
Colour me bright amber, like the autumn's glow,
Let me sink down gently, onto falling leaves below,
Rising with the morning, misty with the dew,
Enveloped with the happiness of truly loving you.
Colour me bright silver, as in the sparkling snow,
Let me sink down gently when the cold winds blow,
Rising with the morning, winter's ice to strew,
Trembling with the happiness of warmly loving you.
Colour me bright emerald, now spring's on the way,
Let me sink down gently on our soft duvet,
Rising with the morning, seeing things brand new,
Sighing with the happiness of me just loving you.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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All The Colours Of The Blue-Sve Boje Plavog
I know the colour of the night
for I am the colour of the night
I dress it in whiteness
it dies out in a snowflake
I know the red of the twilight
for I die with every sunset
deliver it in my own blood
I know the colour of the dawn
for I rise with every sun
the black I dress it in
mourns an encaged butterfly
I know the colour of the smiling water
for I am the smiling water
hiding tears in each of the drops
And I know all the colours of the blue
for blue is mine
cloud sewn dawn
poznajem boju noći
jer ja sam boja noći
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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