Quotes about seventh, page 5
What Have We All Forgotten?
WHAT have we all forgotten, at the break of the seventh year?
With a nation born to the ages and a Bad Time borne on its bier!
Public robbing, and lying that death cannot erase—
“Private” strife and deception—Cover the bad dead face!
Drinking, gambling and madness—Cover and bear it away—
But what have we all forgotten at the dawn of the seventh day?
These are the years of plenty—years when the “tanks” are full—
Stacked by the lonely sidings mountains of wheat and wool.
Country crowds to the city, healthy, shaven and dressed,
Clothes to wear with the gayest, money to spend with the best.
Grand are the lights of the cities, carnival kings in power—
But what have we all forgotten, in this, the eleventh hour?
“We” have brought the states together, a land to the lands new born.
We have worked in the glorious weather, we have garnered and reaped and shorn.
We have come from the grass-waves flowing under Heaven’s electric lamps
(Making of sordid cities, boyish and jovial camps).
“We” have cleansed the cities and townships: we rest and frolic and gain,
But what have we all forgotten? Did we send the peace and the rain?
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poem by Henry Lawson
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The Book of Urizen: Chapter IX
1. Then the Inhabitants of those Cities:
Felt their Nerves change into Marrow
And hardening Bones began
In swift diseases and torments,
In throbbings & shootings & grindings
Thro' all the coasts; till weaken'd
The Senses inward rush'd shrinking,
Beneath the dark net of infection.
2. Till the shrunken eyes clouded over
Discernd not the woven hipocrisy
But the streaky slime in their heavens
Brought together by narrowing perceptions
Appeard transparent air; for their eyes
Grew small like the eyes of a man
And in reptile forms shrinking together
Of seven feet stature they remaind
3. Six days they shrunk up from existence
And on the seventh day they rested
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poem by William Blake
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For this is the way life always begins/Jer tako uvijek pocinje zivot
The night I took away your blues
To spill it behind you as a sign of good luck
You said- your iris- your iris quivering
It stole a dropp right from a well
To kiss place it on my lower lip
The tip of you fingers
To lightly touch the upper one
To draw them both within a smile
You said- there are teeth behind
Whose bite times ago foretold a mark on your neck
And there's a tongue fear snake
Stumbling upon drunken deceptions
Taking off its sagacity skins incurably
I asked- is love a sickness
Insufficiently recorded in medical documents of slow death
And is your name the fountain of health
The word inexhaustible that the sky said is allowed to drink
And should be drunk three times a day
And on the seventh take some rest from water
You said-yes love is a sickness still
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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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The Days
Issuing from the Word
The seven days came,
Each in its own place,
Its own name.
And the first long days
A hard and rocky spring,
Inhuman burgeoning,
And nothing there for claw or hand,
Vast loneliness ere loneliness began,
Where the blank seasons in their journeying
Saw water at play with water and sand with sand.
The waters stirred
And from the doors were cast
Wild lights and shadows on the formless face
Of the flood of chaos, vast
Lengthening and dwindling image of earth and heaven.
The forest's green shadow
Softly over the water driven,
As if the earth's green wonder, endless meadow
Floated and sank within its own green light.
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poem by Edwin Muir
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The Defiance Of Eteocles
MESSENGER
Now at the Seventh Gate the seventh chief,
Thy proper mother's son, I will announce,
What fortune for this city, for himself,
With curses he invoketh:--on the walls
Ascending, heralded as king, to stand,
With paeans for their capture; then with thee
To fight, and either slaying near thee die,
Or thee, who wronged him, chasing forth alive,
Requite in kind his proper banishment.
Such words he shouts, and calls upon the gods
Who o'er his race preside and Fatherland,
With gracious eye to look upon his prayers.
A well-wrought buckler, newly forged, he bears,
With twofold blazon riveted thereon,
For there a woman leads, with sober mien,
A mailed warrior, enchased in gold;
Justice her style, and thus the legend speaks:--
'This man I will restore, and he shall hold
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poem by Aeschylus
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Bible in Poetry: Revelation 11
The Two Witnesses:
1Given a reed-like measuring rod,
I’as told to “ Measure God’s temple,
Altar, and count the worshipers,
2 And to exclude the outer court,
That was given to the Gentiles.
They’ll trample the holy city
For forty-two months at a stretch;
3With my power, my two witnesses,
Will prophesy for a thousand,
Two-sixty days, clothed in sackcloth.'
4Two olive trees and the two lamp-stands
Stand before the Lord of the earth.
5If anyone tries to harm them,
Fire will come out of their mouths
And devours their enemies.
This is how those who harm must die.
6These men have pow’r to block the sky,
So that, it won’t rain at that time,
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poem by John Celes
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Sanasai! The Mother of Distinct Nations with Common Myths
Sanasai!
An anonymous southern land
A faraway south eastern land
A remote south eastern land
In a drifting ocean….
Appearing the sun and moon on a cannibal island
Sanasai!
The mother of distinct nations with common myths in Taljouwan
The same tongue of an unspoken origin
The snakes emerged
Tangling the gloomy sky of hundred folds
Crawling the dark ground of thousand miles
Only pair of brother and sister remained
Potsok and Raya
Embracing and burgeoning the light amid heaven and earth
The penis up-heaved the great loneliness
A stone-like hard glans with red blood vessels
Sucking the water from the hole of vulva
The secretion
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poem by Catherine Yen
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The Nightwind
The nightwind is dancing with the leafless trees
under a new moon
as if they were crutches
that couldn't keep up with its moves.
April night.
All potential.
Lilac month in the valley
and blue hyacinth soon
in the corners of forgotten yards
and for the first time today
down by the Tay where the willows
are going blonde
that bruise of a flower
that looks like a cross
between a broken egg and the moon.
A crocus
like a dab of violet paint
in the foreground of a drab impression.
The apple-trees are waiting for their brides like blossoms.
Saturn's in Virgo
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poem by Patrick White
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Variations of Greek Themes
I
A HAPPY MAN
(Carphyllides)
When these graven lines you see,
Traveler, do not pity me;
Though I be among the dead,
Let no mournful word be said.
Children that I leave behind,
And their children, all were kind;
Near to them and to my wife,
I was happy all my life.
My three sons I married right,
And their sons I rocked at night;
Death nor sorrow ever brought
Cause for one unhappy thought.
Now, and with no need of tears,
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poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Peter Rugg the Bostonian
I
The mare is pawing by the oak,
The chaise is cool and wide
For Peter Rugg the Bostonian
With his little son beside;
The women loiter at the wheels
In the pleasant summer-tide.
"And when wilt thou be home, Father?"
"And when, good husband, say:
The cloud hangs heavy on the house
What time thou art away."
He answers straight, he answers short,
"At noon of the seventh day."
"Fail not to come, if God so will,
And the weather be kind and clear."
"Farewell, farewell! But who am I
A blockhead rain to fear?
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poem by Louise Imogen Guiney
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