Quotes about dyson, page 5
Why Spring Fell Flat
The Spring is gone. I have not seen
Its fairies tripping on the Block,
Arcadians in grey and green,
The happy flapper in a frock
So dainty that the breezes fret
It like the smoke of cigarette.
I’ve seen no pixies of the pave
The season deck with flower and plume;
No slim, entrancing elves that wave
Their gossamers like wattle bloom;
But only staid, trim maids arrayed
In Autumn costumes tailor-made.
Not like a garden poppy strewn
And scented as an Eden fair
Has been the Block at afternoon.
So Spring came not to me this year.
Curse on the greedy profiteer
Who made the dear ones all too dear!
poem by Edward George Dyson
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Highly Desireable
The boarder in the bar-room rose,
A pale gaunt man who lodged with Hann,
“I bear,” he said, “the worst of woes,
And suffer torments no one knows,
For do my best I never can
Have sleep like any other man.
“I have insomnia,” said he.
“At times it drives me mad outright.
Whate’er I do, where’er I be,
Its just the same – so sleep for me.
You won’t believe for three years quite
I haven’t slept two hours a night.”
Boss-cocky Billson softly swore,
And turning from his chestnut cob.
“What’s that?” he questioned from the door.
“You say that you don’t sleep no more
Than two hours? I pay thirty bob.
Now, mister, do you want a job?”
poem by Edward George Dyson
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Quits
Ben Unger’s wife was dark and small,
With little, round, black eyes;
Ben Unger started at her call,
For Ben had been made wise.
No dirge could crush his spirit but
The one by Annie sung;
No whip-lash ever made could cut
Like Annie Unger’s tongue.
But Annie had a round, red cheek,
A figure like a plum,
And Henderson from up the creek
In courtship sly would come.
Then Annie voiced no angry call,
Here dirge remained unsung,
And very gentle was the fall
Of Annie Unger’s tongue.
Ned Holman went to Ben upon
The hill in Colter’s hay.
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poem by Edward George Dyson
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My Typewriter
I have a trim typewriter now,
They tell me none is better;
It makes a pleasing, rhythmic row,
And neat is every letter.
I tick out stories by machine,
Dig pars, and gags, and verses keen,
And lathe them off in manner slick.
It is so easy, and it’s quick.
And yet it falls short, I’m afraid,
Of giving satisfaction,
This making literature by aid
Of scientific traction;
For often, I can’t fail to see,
The dashed thing runs away with me.
It bolts, and do whate’er I may
I cannot hold the runaway.
It is not fitted with a brake,
And endless are my verses,
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poem by Edward George Dyson
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Cricket Is A Serious Thing
In politics there’s room for jest;
With frequent gibes are speeches met,
And measures which are of the best
Are themes for caustic humor yet.
E’en though the pulpiteer we fret
With sundry quiddities we fling,
We pray you never to forget
That cricket is a serious thing.
The crowd assembles at a Test,
And Hobbs at length is fairly set,
Though Gregory rocks ‘em in with zest;
The barrackers may fume and fret
When Parkin has contrived to get
Five men of ours – we feel the sting,
And give expression to regret,
For cricket is a serious thing.
They have the lead; we would arrest
A sort of rot. No epithet
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poem by Edward George Dyson
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When Beauty Is Bald
I’ve sung of Honor’s golden hair
And Hero’s auburn tresses,
Of Bella’s back abundance, where
The sun throws his caresses;
I’ve sung of curl, and coil, and braid;
On meshes I’ve dilated,
Until at last I’m sore afraid
There’s nothing re the hair of maid
That I have left unstated.
‘Twill much relieve the constant strain
Of rhyming to extol her
When on the roof of Sophie’s brain
Appears a bright cupola.
The poet’s verse will freshly run,
Effects will come much faster,
If he may tell the darling one
Her skull is glowing like the sun
And smooth as alabaster.
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poem by Edward George Dyson
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To A Politician
There was a moment when of you
A splendid hope I had to tell,
Believing 'Here is one man who
Will serve our waiting country well.'
I saw you sedulous and keen,
I heard the burning words you spoke.
It seemed that you were hard and clean,
And rapier sharp your every stroke.
Then came success, and in a night
An impish thing you stood apart,
All empty-handed for the fight,
With worse, alas! an empty heart.
Success had spoiled you, said your friends,
It was not so, for naught was there
To spoil but means to petty ends.
At last men saw you bleak and bare.
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poem by Edward George Dyson
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Wherefore Art Thou Romeo?
I see thee still in doublet wide,
And hose well kept, a world too slack,
So long and lean thou wert allied,
It struck me, with that curious back,
The Zoo giraffe. Thy brow was black,
Thy speech was awkward, action slow.
I whispered at thy first attack:
“And wherefore art thou Romeo?”
Thou wert then fifty and cross-eyed;
For acting never hadst the knack.
With stilted bow and Irving stride
Thou tookst the stage, and Jill and Jack
Both sniggered, when with damned clack
Thou talkedst of moons, and wrecked the show.
And here by Heaven, thou art back.
Oh, wherefore art thou Romeo?
This fellow was a lad of pride,
No prinked-out fool, with just a snack
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poem by Edward George Dyson
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The Unborn
I see grim War, a bestial thing,
with swinish tusks to tear;
Upon his back the vampires cling,
Thin vipers twine among his hair,
The tiger's greed is in his jowl,
His eye is red with bloody tears,
And every obscene beast and fowl
From out his leprous visage leers.
In glowing pride fell fiends arise,
And, trampled, God the Father lies.
Not God alone the Demon slays;
The hills that swell to Heaven drip
With ooze of murdered men; for days
The dead drift with the drifting ship,
And far as eye may see the plain
Is cumbered deep with slaughtered ones,
Contorted to the shape of pain,
Dissolving 'neath the callous suns,
And driven in his foetid breath
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poem by Edward George Dyson
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The Church Bells
The Viennese authorities have melted down
the great bell in St. Stephen's to supply metal
for guns or muntions. Every poor village
has made a similar gift.—Lokal Anzeiger.
The great bell booms across the town,
Reverberant and slow,
And drifting from their houses down
The calm-eyed people go.
Their feet fall on the portal stones
Their fathers' fathers trod;
And still the bell, with reverent tones,
From cottage nooks and purple thrones
Is calling souls to God.
The chapel bells with ardor spake
Above the poplars tall,
And perfumed Sabbath seemed to wake.
Responsive to their call
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poem by Edward George Dyson
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