Quotes about unused, page 6
Her Poem
'My baby girl, that was born and died on the same day'
'WITH wild torn heart I see them still,
Wee unused clothes and empty cot.
Though glad my love has missed the ill
That falls to woman's lot.
'No tangled paths for her to tread
Throughout the coming changeful years;
No desperate weird to dree and dread;
No bitter lonely tears!
'No woman's piercing crown of thorns
Will press my aching baby's brow;
No starless nights, no sunless morns,
Will ever greet her now.
'The clothes that I had wrought with care
Through weary hours for love's sweet sake
Are laid aside, and with them there
A heart that seemed to break.'
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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A Cross T[r]ick - Acrostic
Departing with the train the week expires
On Friday night, commuters find release
Using well trained minds unused to peace
By pie[r]cing crossword clues, - games each admires.
Life-lines are strung out too, as each aspires
Enthusiastic to the morrow’s ease,
Creating word-games just before the peas
Rinsed with the salad welcome cooking fires.
On what enchanted waves will strange desires
Safety spurn when dreams seek f[l]resh release,
Sweet rapture, soft reflections sure to please,
In harmony with self. This, each requires.
Now, questions answered, prophecies fulfill
Great expectations bright with heightened will.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Alone
A phone that seldom rings, or never,
Sounds like a life-line coiled, unused,
A link to light that stands accused,
Left hanging in the never-never.
Life is so short, so soon to sever,
A call can save, and one refused
Leaves empty heart, and mind bemused
Or all at sea. However clever
No diver plunges who would ever
Enthuse or feel the least amused
If, once he sank, trust was abused: -
Cut lines for reason whatsoever!
Remember then the friendly call
You make can take no time at all.
Acrostic sonnet and previous title As All Alone I Cry
robi03_0203_robi03_0000 ASX_JZX
(3 January 1991 revised 5 October 2006)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Clock
Recently you spoke about the condition
of the clock you’ve had for many years.
You said it wasn’t functioning properly
because of it’s age and worn out gears.
I understand you tried to get it mended,
but it was way beyond repair.
And now you miss its ticking,
and the time it used to bear.
I know that it’s of sentimental value,
and nothing could ever take its place,
but I’ve one that’s been unused for years,
and it comes with a smiling face.
When you’re ready for a replacement,
and you can face it without distress,
I’ll pop the smiling clock around to you,
it’ll bring good time and happiness.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Alcuin - 0293 Acrostic Sonnet Initial Version
All pause and rest, who, passing by the way,
Lines read. Reflect how frail is human clay.
Can you learn from my fate what yours shall be?
Unwound my watch, run down soon yours - you'll see.
In spite of this world's gifts, old Time won't stay.
Now here, tomorrow wed to history.
And can you for my fortune care today,
Leaves turn to trace if I was sad or gay?
Care you a fig? How long in memory,
Unused, the trace of what was Life to me
Is likely to remain? All slips away,
Naught human can defy Eternity!
The Day of Judgement none can e'er delay,
And yet some ask: 'are there still Gods to weigh? '
(8 March 1990)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Sonnet 30: When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste.
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,
And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
poem by William Shakespeare
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Sonnet: God Gave All Things Functions
Iron in Air unused can only rust;
It should be beaten into useful things;
All books unread will gather only dust;
The ring-fingers are meant for wedding-rings!
A mirror loses silvering with time;
One’s face reflects the feelings of the mind;
One’s activities depend on the clime;
The jaws must move well in order to grind.
All things must be to optimum use put;
All things must be taken care of rightly;
The hand cannot do things, done by the foot;
The care of soul shouldn’t be taken lightly.
All things God gave have functions numerous;
Let’s thank the Lord for being generous.
6-18-2002 by Dr John Celes
poem by John Celes
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A Way
A Way
I saw a narrow side road unused now but
scars from cartwheels are still visible. On
both sides' walls have partly fallen down,
no longer protecting or guarding anything,
obvious except, perhaps, memories; yet
the walls, with yellows spring flowers on
looked graceful as the easterly softly blew.
[...] Read more
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Storm behind the silence!
[Go oft to the house of thy friend, for weeds choke the unused path.]-Ralph Waldo Emerson
Seated roadside
on the pavement
but not a meditation?
No lip movements
and a silent song.
Tin-till stands for alms?
Bony fingers play the mandolin
a melancholy tune.
Coloured vehicles stop
to the red signal light
and move fast
when green winks.
Pedestrians too busy with their
daily activities?
Beautiful beggarmaid
like a sculpture!
Leave the sorrowful music aside
But at least to your unique beauty
[...] Read more
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Sonnet: People These Days
Sometimes, one knows not how one gets his wealth;
Sometimes, one forgets where it lies in mounds!
Sometimes, one slogs in spite of failing health;
The wealth unused becomes another one’s!
Some buy estates and grow fruit-trees in it;
Some build guest-houses, temples and show-rooms;
To save some tax, some donate by habit;
Some sweep the twigs and fallen leaves with brooms!
How people crave to make money some more!
They enjoy not as how a pauper does;
Some miserly live staying much indoors;
To give a nickel, they make such a fuss!
And yet, all know they leave behind all wealth,
Whether acquired by luck or by stealth.
6-27-2002 by Dr John Celes
poem by John Celes
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