Quotes about wets, page 5
Italian Myrtles
By many a soft Ligurian bay
The myrtles glisten green and bright,
Gleam with their flowers of snow by day,
And glow with fire-flies through the night,
And yet, despite the cold and heat,
Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet.
There is an island in the West,
Where living myrtles bloom and blow,
Hearts where the fire-fly Love my rest
Within a paradise of snow-
Which yet, despite the cold and heat,
Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet.
Deep in that gentle breast of thine-
Like fire and snow within the pearl-
Let purity and love combine,
O warm, pure-hearted Irish girl!
And in the cold and in the heat
Be ever fresh, and pure, and sweet.
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poem by Denis Florence MacCarthy
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Every Woman Wants To Dance
Every woman wants to dance
Every woman wants the chance.
Behind closed doors
All the fiery sexy sways,
Even thru her kitchen days,
She’ll use her pegs as castanets
As soggy towels her hands do wets.
Over fence, neighbours know they have seen,
The local show of the dancing queen,
Radio’s Rolling Stones belt out the action to
‘I can’t get no satisfaction’,
A million hips gyrate on the table tops
As they swing and hug the upturned mops.
Every woman wants to dance
Every woman wants the chance.
In the shops in the office the toes do tap,
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poem by Ken e Hall
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In-Reverse [experimental]
[first the way it's written out] [below this is the way it's read, backwards, hence the title]
Knits ergo nip trad stops step
Lived mined decal brag decaf slag net
Bonk loots a no spam retool parts snub avid
Tab rats ta bag paws god dam
Reward a a no stressed Marc pots
Gulp loop Emil peed pit rail
Yam me dial stun reviled tar
Spots remit lit ton drawer spat tide
Peels a ma snips moor
Snip bats slap live reel I
Straw tog gel won loot revel a snot gut tort reed
Draw on spot nips raw mug gnat
Snug flow pot part spool stew spas flog
Emit pal a pals
Sag Ron regal on tub sub repaid sleets reined dab
[the actual way it is read-backwards is below]
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poem by R.K. Cowles
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If Love Can Only Complain
if love can only complain
it could have said a lot of words
something that you may not like to hear
for love is not a contract with a definite date
when to start and when to end
love has its own time, a meeting a bonding and a departing
it may come back but it never wants to be held
against itself
love is always free nothing bound no one obliged
no one coerced to stay and be loveless in every hour
that tortures what permanence abhors
if love can only complain
it could have told you that you have not known it
for love is just like a river flowing to the sea only to be lost in universality
for love is just like the rain that pours and then disappear to the earth
that it fills, the dryness that it wets, the cracks that it fills
you do not hold a hand permanently like you are a steel chain
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lavender Pond
Never a swallow wets his wing
In Lavender Pond from Spring to Spring;
Never a lily, pure and chill,
Holds her cup for the dews to fill;
Never a willow, gnarled and hoar,
Bends his bough to a reedy shore;
Never a fragrant flower spike blows there,
Never a lordly King-staff grows there,
Slender and straight where sedges shiver
And glistening Mayflies glance and quiver,
In Lavender Pond by London River.
But the Baltic barques the come and go
With their old pump-windmills turning slow,
And the tall Cape Horners rest and ride
Like stately swans on the murky tide,
And the ocean tramps all red and rusted,
Worn and weathered and salt-encrusted,
Gather and cluster near and far,
Derrick and funnel, mast and spar,
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poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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04.Sometimes...
SOMETIMES...
sometimes i sit and compose
sometimes i simply cannot...
sometimes i get up and fight
sometimes i simply cannot...
sometimes i laugh to much
and end up in tears
sometimes i try to cry
but my eyes remain dry
sometimes a lie can saw a life
sometimes a truth can kill you
sometimes enemies save your life
sometimes near ones betray you
sometimes friends are everything
sometimes they pull you down...
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poem by Harshvardhan Pandit
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Lavinia
The lovely young Lavinia once had friends;
And fortune smiled deceitful on her birth:
For, in her helpless years deprived of all,
Of every stay, save innocence and Heaven,
She, with her widow'd mother, feeble, old,
And poor, lived in a cottage, far retired
Among the windings of a woody vale;
By solitude and deep-surrounding shades,
But more by bashful modesty, conceal'd.
Together thus they shunn'd the cruel scorn
Which virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet
From giddy passion and low-minded pride;
Almost on Nature's common bounty fed,
Like the gay birds that sung them to repose,
Content, and careless of to-morrow's fare.
Her form was fresher than the morning rose,
When the dew wets its leaves; unstain'd and pure,
As is the lily or the mountain snow.
The modest virtues mingled in her eyes,
Still on the ground dejected, darting all
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poem by James Thomson
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Summer On The South Bank
Nothing quite beats strolling along
London's South Bank in the sun.
From the cafes and bars laughter is heard.
The vibe is electric. There's a real sense of fun.
Like a giant bicycle wheel,
Turning slowly, is the London Eye.
Its numerous see-through pods
Carrying passengers way up high.
The 'Appearing Rooms' art installation,
Has constantly dancing water jets.
Small children in swimwear, shriek with joy,
As them, the water cools and wets.
In the ballroom at the Royal Festival Hall,
There's often entertainment for free.
You can watch singers, dancers or musicians,
While sitting having cake and a cup of tea.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Question
I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way,
Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,
And gentle odours led my steps astray,
Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring
Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,
But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,
Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth,
The constellated flower that never sets;
Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth
The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets--
Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth--
Its mother's face with Heaven's collected tears,
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.
And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
Green cowbind and the moonlight-coloured may,
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poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Traces Of Madness (madman's Song)
You would have said, ship carries us to the water
and wets us in the joys of sail.
And my reason would have raised its voice saying
A ship rather lets us remain dry of the river
And so would have been our fight.
Had there not appeared my madness and being our guide
told our wise ignorance that ship lets us know
that life and death are but two sides of the same coin and
coins cannot buy us more than what we have;
and what we have learnt to own.
Don't question my madness, nor inquire its sources
I shall also not talk of your sorrow and your song's sadness
But if at this greater curiosity greets your heart
know that it is my only inheritance.
I am heir of many lost roads
So my book begins not at a beginning
And I author letters addressed to shelter less souls,
I tell tales those only a traveler knows
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poem by Aman Saa
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