Quotes about murmur, page 5
Nutting
---------------------It seems a day
(I speak of one from many singled out)
One of those heavenly days that cannot die;
When, in the eagerness of boyish hope,
I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung,
A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps
Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint,
Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds
Which for that service had been husbanded,
By exhortation of my frugal Dame--
Motley accoutrement, of power to smile
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,--and, in truth,
More ragged than need was! O'er pathless rocks,
Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets,
Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook
Unvisited, where not a broken bough
Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign
Of devastation; but the hazels rose
Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung,
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poem by William Wordsworth
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The Assignation
Hear I the creaking gate unclose?
The gleaming latch uplifted?
No--'twas the wind that, whirring, rose,
Amidst the poplars drifted!
Adorn thyself, thou green leaf-bowering roof,
Destined the bright one's presence to receive,
For her, a shadowy palace-hall aloof
With holy night, thy boughs familiar weave.
And ye sweet flatteries of the delicate air,
Awake and sport her rosy cheek around,
When their light weight the tender feet shall bear,
When beauty comes to passion's trysting-ground.
Hush! what amidst the copses crept--
So swiftly by me now?
No-'twas the startled bird that swept
The light leaves of the bough!
Day, quench thy torch! come, ghostlike, from on high,
With thy loved silence, come, thou haunting Eve,
Broaden below thy web of purple dye,
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poem by Friedrich Schiller
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Binge drinking grub in pub rues dreams run rare
When you are young and blithe, brink full of fun,
binge drinking grub in pub rues dreams run rare.
Case quick disjointed joint. Soon rising sun
transforms both in and outright sight with glare.
Teetering down by overflowing bar,
murmur, sadly slurring, how Love fled.
Glass clinking clown mask crowd clouds twinkling stars
as unseen, from the gutter, as mountains overhead
Take a quick gander in mind's mirror too.
Shake out fair hair, where lusting hands would grope.
Make hay while sun shines, remember very few
shall beacon beckon, most unravelled rope
too soon unreel. Time's kriegspiel lightning flash
strikes home as Charon charges one-way fee
for memories few hold. Bough breaks. Vows trash
consigned by brash newcomers seeking key.
In some sum total of recorded time
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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On his Previous Blindness - Parody John MILTON - On His Blindness
When I consider how my life's been spent
these whirling years in this dark world and wide,
with that one talent which my wits supplied
held in abeyance waiting for love s[c]ent
to blossom to true beauty, to present
the world with tribute due and bona fide,
I thank my stars I have not been denied
your love which none and nothing can prevent,
your love, where that of others is descent,
your love which above all on Earth I pride.
I thank 'coincidence' which did provide
the opportunity to be content.
When I consider this I understand
how two t[hr]o[ugh] one may flow, grow hand in hand!
(10 December 2001 after Jphn Milton see below for alternate version)
Time Misspent
When I consider so much time misspent
these fifty years, I've little right to guide, -
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Workhouse Clock
An Allegory
There's a murmur in the air,
And noise in every street—
The murmur of many tongues,
The noise of numerous feet—
While round the Workhouse door
The Laboring Classes flock,
For why? the Overseer of the Poor
Is setting the Workhouse Clock.
Who does not hear the tramp
Of thousands speeding along
Of either sex and various stamp,
Sickly, cripple, or strong,
Walking, limping, creeping
From court and alley, and lane,
But all in one direction sweeping
Like rivers that seek the main?
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poem by Thomas Hood
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On Our Blindness - after John Milton - On His Blindness
On Our Blindness
When we consider all our freedoms lost
with HA! BE U.S.! Corpus of bush law,
black death to hide the whitewash when p’lice score
’gainst innocence ‘wrong place, wrong time’ star-crossed,
One wonders, when our children count the cost
and, chiding, true account present before
Executive Privilege bolted door,
will they, when light denied, in prison tossed,
murmur “God only needs assent Orwellian bossed! ”?
Man, chip embeddèd, acts recorded, sore
bearing harsh yoke, must serve where none ignore
C.C.T.V. controls come shine or frost.
They swerve too late who brake fair freedom’s flow,
stand, wait, burn at State stake, want not to know …
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Prince Charming from the linden
– Blanca, even from the cradle
Your groom is the God above
For you're born, my wretched baby
Of a wrong, unworthy love.
In the monastery Ste. Anna
You will find the holy grace
For your soul, which is resentful,
For the saving of my face.
– I'm not willing, my dear father,
To seclude my happy soul:
I love hunting, I love dancing;
Let the world follow its goal.
I don't want to lose my tresses,
Which are hanging to the ground,
To go blind reading old pages
With pale incense smoke around.
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poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoș
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Prince Charming from the linden
– Blanca, even from the cradle
Your groom is the God above
For you're born, my wretched baby
Of a wrong, unworthy love.
In the monastery Ste. Anna
You will find the holy grace
For your soul, which is resentful,
For the saving of my face.
– I'm not willing, my dear father,
To seclude my happy soul:
I love hunting, I love dancing;
Let the world follow its goal.
I don't want to lose my tresses,
Which are hanging to the ground,
To go blind reading old pages
With pale incense smoke around.
[...] Read more
poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoș
Added by anonym
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Prince Charming from the linden
– Blanca, even from the cradle
Your groom is the God above
For you're born, my wretched baby
Of a wrong, unworthy love.
In the monastery Ste. Anna
You will find the holy grace
For your soul, which is resentful,
For the saving of my face.
– I'm not willing, my dear father,
To seclude my happy soul:
I love hunting, I love dancing;
Let the world follow its goal.
I don't want to lose my tresses,
Which are hanging to the ground,
To go blind reading old pages
With pale incense smoke around.
[...] Read more
poem by Mihai Eminescu, translated by Octavian Cocoș
Added by anonym
Comment! | Vote! | Copy! | In Romanian
The Quest
Part i:
Three men set out for their worldly quest
One for gold, another for a pleasure nest
The third for what he could not tell
But trusted his heart to lead him well.
'I shall have every silver and every gold'
The first boasted so bold
'All pleasure everywhere is mine'
The second yelled, 'with plenty wine and dine'
To the third they asked, 'what will yours be'
'Well for all i ask and seek, ' said he
'Let the sun guide me by day, by night the moon
To my quest, my heart shall lead me there soon'
Part ii
And there before the rising sun
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poem by Okonkwo Osamedua. Allen
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