Quotes about ray, page 6
Everything But Me
Ashes falling on the ground
Winds that blow a hollow sound
Once standing taller still
Now falling by your will
How many times the sun has shown
On everything but me
Rain that falls upon my heart
Washes away the endings start
I try to sing aloud but
My voice is lost within the crowd
How many times the sun has shown
On everything but me
Every little thing is free
Every little moment sings
Every little ray of sunshine
Every little broken heart of mine
How many times the sun has shown
On everything but me
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poem by Barbara Vanier
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To The Eye
THRONE of expression! whence the spirit's ray
Pours forth so oft the light of mental day,
Where fancy's fire, affection's melting beam,
Thought, genius, passion, reign in turn supreme,
And many a feeling, words can ne'er impart,
Finds its own language to pervade the heart;
Thy power, bright orb, what bosom hath not felt,
To thrill, to rouse, to fascinate, to melt!
And by some spell of undefined control,
With magnet-influence touch the secret soul!
Light of the features! in the morn of youth
Thy glance is nature, and thy language truth;
And ere the world, with all-corrupting sway,
Hath taught e'en thee to flatter and betray,
The ingenuous heart forbids thee to reveal,
Or speak one thought that interest would conceal;
While yet thou seem'st the cloudless mirror, given
But to reflect the purity of heaven;
O! then how lovely, there unveil'd, to trace
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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a letter from Patty and Ray
It is time for us to leave San Diego
and head back to Portland
starting on Valentines Day.
I hear it has been snowing in Portland,
I guess that rules out outdoor yoga classes.
That doesn’t sound good compared
to San Diego where it is usually sunny
and the activities included yoga,
aerobics, tennis, biking to shop,
kayaking, and fish tacos.
We have a great spot here
at Campland with a water view out front.
It is much nicer
than last year because
no one is occupying
the spots on either side of us.
We brought nicer bikes
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To F.W.F.
Farrar, when o’er Goodwin’s page
Late I found thee poring,
From the hydrostatic Sage
Leaky Memory storing,
Or when groaning yesterday
Needlessly distracted
By some bright erratic ray,
Through a sphere refracted,—
Then the quick words, oft suppressed,
In my fauces fluttered;
Thoughts not yet in language drest
Pleasing to be uttered.
He that neatly gilds the pill
Hides the drug but vainly,
So, in chance-sown words, I will
Speak the matter plainly.
Men there are, whose patient minds,
In one object centred,
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poem by James Clerk Maxwell
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Science
Darkness sat brooding o'er the infant world,
That in chaotic gloom and silence lay,
Till from the throne of Light the sun was hurled;
Then that eternal night was changed to day,
And his effulgent, life-imparting ray,
O'er the wide waste of waters moved along:
The land and sea divided, and away
From out their depths young Nature startled sprung,
And in the light rejoiced till the blue heavens rung.
Even thus, oh! Science, hath thy glorious light
Rolled the dark clouds of Ignorance away,
Dispelled the darkness of a deeper night,
Than that which once o'er chaos thickly lay --
The darkness of the mind; and thy mid-day
Is still far distant -- yet nor time nor space
Is unillumined with thy heavenly ray:
The clouds are rent that shrouded Nature's face,
And now she stands unveiled in all her loveliness.
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poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
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Punch Up At 'Dart Man's Aim
Fifteen stone and just five foot eight
And yet he doesn't seem overweight
Deep, deep chest and shoulders wide
The strongest in this countryside.
He's the mighty Dan the frog
From the house beside the bog
Swarthy looking with raven hair
A happy man without a care.
He's no plans to take a wife
As he prefers the single life
And he's still a young man anyway
Just twenty five on his last birthday
Froggy is his dad's nickname
And that's from where the name frog came
But his nickname of frog he doesn't appreciate
In fact the word called frog he's grown to hate.
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poem by Francis Duggan
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On Happiness
Warm'd by the summer sun's meridian ray,
As underneath a spreading oak I lay
Contemplating the mighty load of woe,
In search of bliss that mortals undergo,
Who, while they think they happiness enjoy,
Embrace a curse wrapt in delusive joy,
I reason'd thus: Since the Creator, God,
Who in eternal love makes his abode,
Hath blended with the essence of the soul
An appetite as fixed as the pole,
That's always eager in pursuit of bliss,
And always veering till it points to this,
There is some object adequate to fill
This boundless wish of our extended will.
Now, while my thought round nature's circle runs
(A bolder journey than the furious sun's)
This chief and satiating good to find
The attracting centre of the human mind,
My ears they deafen'd, to my swimming eyes
His magic wand the drowsy God applies,
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poem by James Thomson
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The Thorn
I
'There is a Thorn--it looks so old,
In truth, you'd find it hard to say
How it could ever have been young,
It looks so old and grey.
Not higher than a two years' child
It stands erect, this aged Thorn;
No leaves it has, no prickly points;
It is a mass of knotted joints,
A wretched thing forlorn.
It stands erect, and like a stone
With lichens is it overgrown.
II
'Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown,
With lichens to the very top,
And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
A melancholy crop:
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poem by William Wordsworth
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The Wizard Way
[Dedicated to General J.C.F. Fuller]
Velvet soft the night-star glowed
Over the untrodden road,
Through the giant glades of yew
Where its ray fell light as dew
Lighting up the shimmering veil
Maiden pure and aery frail
That the spiders wove to hide
Blushes of the sylvan bride
Earth, that trembled with delight
At the male caress of Night.
Velvet soft the wizard trod
To the Sabbath of his God.
With his naked feet he made
Starry blossoms in the glade,
Softly, softly, as he went
To the sombre sacrament,
Stealthy stepping to the tryst
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poem by Aleister Crowley
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The Wrath Of Loyalty
OCTOBER! tho' thy rugged brow,
No vivid wreaths entwine;
Tho' not for thee the zephyr blow,
Tho' not for thee the blossom glow,
Or skies unclouded shine:
Tho' o'er thy dark and russet vest
No rainbow-colors play;
Tho' dim thine eye, tho' cold thy breast,
Yet be thou honor'd, be thou blest,
E'en more than youthful May!
No vernal suns illume thy day,
Fair star of joy! then brighter beam!
No forest-notes attend thy way,
Then strike the lyre, then make the lay,
To one inspiring theme!
Thy steps may blight the roseate plain,
Thy winds may chill the vale;
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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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