Quotes about pruning, page 6
The Fruit Shop
Cross-ribboned shoes; a muslin gown,
High-waisted, girdled with bright blue;
A straw poke bonnet which hid the frown
She pluckered her little brows into
As she picked her dainty passage through
The dusty street. 'Ah, Mademoiselle,
A dirty pathway, we need rain,
My poor fruits suffer, and the shell
Of this nut's too big for its kernel, lain
Here in the sun it has shrunk again.
The baker down at the corner says
We need a battle to shake the clouds;
But I am a man of peace, my ways
Don't look to the killing of men in crowds.
Poor fellows with guns and bayonets for shrouds!
Pray, Mademoiselle, come out of the sun.
Let me dust off that wicker chair. It's cool
In here, for the green leaves I have run
In a curtain over the door, make a pool
Of shade. You see the pears on that stool -
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poem by Amy Lowell
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As you pay the price with the fertilizer, the hoe and pruning determines the harvest of the olives.
Sicilian proverbs
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And He shall judge among the nations, and shall rebuke many people and they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.
in Bible, Isaiah
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O Holy Night
Oh holy night!
The stars are brightly shining
It is the night of dear saviors birth!
Long lay the world in sin and error pruning
Till he appeard and the soul felts its worth
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!
Fall on your knees
Oh hear the angel voices
Oh night divine
Oh night when christ was born
Oh night divine
Oh night divine
Halleluiah for the holy night
song performed by Donna Summer
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Happy Family
Happy family, one hand clap, four went by and
None come back.
Brother judas, ash and sack, swallowed aphrodisiac.
Rufus, silas, jonah too sang, well blow our own
Canoes,
Poked a finger in the zoo, punctured all the ballyhoo
Whipped the world and beat the clock, wound up
With their share of stock.
Silver rolls from golden rock, shaken by a knock,
Knock, knock.
Happy family, wave that grin, what goes round
Must surely spin;
Cheesecake, mousetrap, grip-pipe-thynne cried out,
Were not rin tin tin.
Uncle rufus grew his nose, threw away his circus
Clothes
Cousin silas grew a beard, drew another flask of
Weird
Nasty jonah grew a wife, judas drew his pruning
Knife.
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song performed by King Crimson
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Everything On The Garbage Dump
Everything on the garbage dump
like the picked over pyre of an unholy death.
The rubes seeing through the ruses of the rich
straight into their computerized living rooms
behind the razor wire and grapevines.
Bad mistake. The poor begin to compare,
and where they wanted to be elite yesterday,
today they smoulder like a root fire
at what's been done to them
many days before by what goes on under
the cornerstones of our quicksand institutions
imploding under the mass of corruption at their core.
Lies so immense, even the media can't eat them,
and scum-bag politicians wallowing in what
they don't want anyone else to have. A cure
for a child that's dying, after having lost her hair,
a bed for a homeless man who's off his meds,
a job for his son and daughter, open-handed economics
where the destitute aren't eating the scraps
that fall off the elemental table of the obscenely overfed.
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poem by Patrick White
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Sword Blades And Poppy Seed
A drifting, April, twilight sky,
A wind which blew the puddles dry,
And slapped the river into waves
That ran and hid among the staves
Of an old wharf. A watery light
Touched bleak the granite bridge, and white
Without the slightest tinge of gold,
The city shivered in the cold.
All day my thoughts had lain as dead,
Unborn and bursting in my head.
From time to time I wrote a word
Which lines and circles overscored.
My table seemed a graveyard, full
Of coffins waiting burial.
I seized these vile abortions, tore
Them into jagged bits, and swore
To be the dupe of hope no more.
Into the evening straight I went,
Starved of a day's accomplishment.
Unnoticing, I wandered where
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poem by Amy Lowell
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The Old-Home Folks
Such was the Child-World of the long-ago--
The little world these children used to know:--
Johnty, the oldest, and the best, perhaps,
Of the five happy little Hoosier chaps
Inhabiting this wee world all their own.--
Johnty, the leader, with his native tone
Of grave command--a general on parade
Whose each punctilious order was obeyed
By his proud followers.
But Johnty yet--
After all serious duties--could forget
The gravity of life to the extent,
At times, of kindling much astonishment
About him: With a quick, observant eye,
And mind and memory, he could supply
The tamest incident with liveliest mirth;
And at the most unlooked-for times on earth
Was wont to break into some travesty
On those around him--feats of mimicry
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poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Day Of The Daughter Of Hades
I
He who has looked upon Earth
Deeper than flower and fruit,
Losing some hue of his mirth,
As the tree striking rock at the root,
Unto him shall the marvellous tale
Of Callistes more humanly come
With the touch on his breast than a hail
From the markets that hum.
II
Now the youth footed swift to the dawn.
'Twas the season when wintertide,
In the higher rock-hollows updrawn,
Leaves meadows to bud, and he spied,
By light throwing shallow shade,
Between the beam and the gloom,
Sicilian Enna, whose Maid
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poem by George Meredith
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The Battle Of The Lake Regillus
A Lay Sung at the Feast of Castor and Pollux on the Ides of Quintilis in the year of the City CCCCLI.
I.
Ho, trumpets, sound a war-note!
Ho, lictors, clear the way!
The Knights will ride, in all their pride,
Along the streets to-day.
To-day the doors and windows
Are hung with garlands all,
From Castor in the Forum,
To Mars without the wall.
Each Knight is robed in purple,
With olive each is crowned;
A gallant war-horse under each
Paws haughtily the ground.
While flows the Yellow River,
While stands the Sacred Hill,
The proud Ides of Quintilis
Shall have such honor still.
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poem by Thomas Babbington Macaulay
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