Quotes about sylvan, page 5
After Hearing Robin Hood
The songs of Sherwood Forest
Are lilac-sweet and clear;
The virile rhymes of merrier times
Sound fair upon mine ear.
Sweet is their sylvan cadence
And sweet their simple art.
The balladry of the greenwood tree
Stirs memories in my heart.
O braver days and elder
With mickle valor dight,
How ye bring back the time, alack!
When Harry Smith could write!
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Lines. Oh! To Some Distant Scene
Oh! to some distant scene, a willing exile
From the wild roar of this busy world,
Were it my fate with Delia to retire,
With her to wander through the sylvan shade,
Each morn, or o'er the moss-embrowned turf,
Where, blest as the prime parents of mankind
In their own Eden, we should envy none,
But, greatly pitying whom the world calls happy
Gently spin out the silken thread of life!
poem by William Cowper
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The Spring
Cydonian Spring with her attendant train,
Maelids and water-girls,
Stepping beneath a boisterous wind from Thrace,
Throughout this sylvan place
Spreads the bright tips,
And every vine-stock is
Clad in new brilliancies.
And wild desire
Falls like black lightning.
bewildered heart,
Though every branch have back what last year lost,
She, who moved here amid the cyclamen,
Moves only now a clinging tenuous ghost.
poem by Ezra Pound
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Forefathers
Force the design of a matter of doubt
To be useless.
The lessening of your number of people
Is like a fire of wood crackling
With heat.
The hot stove is cooking my meat of venison,
Relished by my children of the woods.
The design of food is exceptional by the maker of us,
He is the forefather, and she is the foremother,
Reaching our hearts with the stove and the woods
And the sylvan animals of beauty and belief.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Lines Sent To Elia,
Elia! thro' irony of hearts the mender,
May this pig prove like thine own pathos—tender.
Bear of thy sageness, in its sage, the zest;
And quaintly crackle, like thy crackling jest.
And—dry without—rich inly—as thy wit,
Be worthy thee—as thou art worthy it.
PS.
Beside the sty-born finding room to spare,
Begs kind acceptance of himself—a hare.
And since, being sylvan, he but ill indites,
Hopes he may eat much better than he writes.
poem by John Kenyon
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Little Writers
Little men concisely write on little matters,
Opening their boyhood to many charms.
Fifty years must pass before danger is averted,
And their store of education has fixed their life.
Vital ways made success and vital sounds,
With noise is sorriness, foul play.
The bells are knelling in the background
Over the sylvan creatures living there.
Bells are like big people,
Little men do not write as well;
The bells have knelled in righteous ways,
We have wrists to write and they have rights.
poem by Naveed Akram
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When Ore My Temples Balmy Vapours Rise
When ore my temples balmy vapours rise
Whose soft suffusion dims the sinking eyes
Gay dreams in troops fantastically light
On silent plumes wave down through sable night
Nights sable curtains draw before my eye
gently clears a visionary Sky
the running darkness draws its dusky shade
from off the beautys of a flowry mead
More still more forsakes the lengthening plain
Mounts gray ends it in a sylvan scene.
Poizd & aloft I sail in glittring air
Joy to view my newborn earth so fair
poem by Thomas Parnell
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Green Fields And Running Brooks
Ho! green fields and running brooks!
Knotted strings and fishing-hooks
Of the truant, stealing down
Weedy backways of the town.
Where the sunshine overlooks,
By green fields and running brooks,
All intruding guests of chance
With a golden tolerance,
Cooing doves, or pensive pair
Of picnickers, straying there--
By green fields and running brooks,
Sylvan shades and mossy nooks!
And--O Dreamer of the Days,
Murmurer of roundelays
All unsung of words or books,
Sing green fields and running brooks!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Kidnaped
I HELD my heart so far from harm,
I let it wander far and free
In mead and mart, without alarm,
Assured it must come back to me.
And all went well till on a day,
Learned Dr. Cupid wandered by
A search along our sylvan way
For some peculiar butterfly.
A flash of wings, a hurried drive,
A flutter and a short-lived flit;
This Scientist, as I am alive
Had seen my heart and captured it.
Right tightly now 'tis held among
The specimens that he has trapped,
And sings (Oh, love is ever young),
'Tis passing sweet to be kidnaped.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Horace To His Lute
If ever in the sylvan shade
A song immortal we have made,
Come now, O lute, I pri' thee come--
Inspire a song of Latium.
A Lesbian first thy glories proved--
In arms and in repose he loved
To sweep thy dulcet strings and raise
His voice in Love's and Liber's praise;
The Muses, too, and him who clings
To Mother Venus' apron-strings,
And Lycus beautiful, he sung
In those old days when you were young.
O shell, that art the ornament
Of Phoebus, bringing sweet content
To Jove, and soothing troubles all--
Come and requite me, when I call!
poem by Eugene Field
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