Quotes about tether, page 7
Long-Legged Fly
THAT civilisation may not sink,
Its great battle lost,
Quiet the dog, tether the pony
To a distant post;
Our master Caesar is in the tent
Where the maps ate spread,
His eyes fixed upon nothing,
A hand under his head.
Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.
That the topless towers be burnt
And men recall that face,
Move most gently if move you must
In this lonely place.
She thinks, part woman, three parts a child,
That nobody looks; her feet
Practise a tinker shuffle
Picked up on a street.
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poem by William Butler Yeats
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Our Favourite Subject
Let us discuss our weather,
For it's what we English do,
Sometimes it pours, hell for leather,
And sometimes the sky is blue.
It is forever changing,
The forecast can be dire,
And temperatures can be ranging,
From cold to hot as fire.
We moan, when it is sizzling,
We moan, when it's cold and raw,
We moan, when it is drizzling,
And when it's snowing, even more.
It is our favourite subject,
Talked of from morn till night,
We never know what to expect,
Whether Centigrade or Fahrenheit.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Short Song of Congratulation
LONG-EXPECTED one and twenty
Ling'ring year at last has flown,
Pomp and pleasure, pride and plenty
Great Sir John, are all your own.
Loosen'd from the minor's tether,
Free to mortgage or to sell,
Wild as wind, and light as feather
Bid the slaves of thrift farewell.
Call the Bettys, Kates, and Jenneys
Ev'ry name that laughs at care,
Lavish of your Grandsire's guineas,
Show the spirit of an heir.
All that prey on vice and folly
Joy to see their quarry fly,
Here the gamester light and jolly
There the lender grave and sly.
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poem by Samuel Johnson
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One And Twenty
LONG-EXPECTED one and twenty
Ling'ring year at last has flown,
Pomp and pleasure, pride and plenty
Great Sir John, are all your own.
Loosen'd from the minor's tether,
Free to mortgage or to sell,
Wild as wind, and light as feather
Bid the slaves of thrift farewell.
Call the Bettys, Kates, and Jenneys
Ev'ry name that laughs at care,
Lavish of your Grandsire's guineas,
Show the spirit of an heir.
All that prey on vice and folly
Joy to see their quarry fly,
Here the gamester light and jolly
There the lender grave and sly.
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poem by Samuel Johnson
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Tomorrow and Tomorrow
The pulling string,
which is Time's tether,
brings
and binds
all things
together
in the contoured galleries of our minds.
Piaf has been dead
these thirty years or more
and yet her voice is bought
and sold in any CD store.
Yesterday and tomorrow,
mingled joy and sorrow,
are raw material for the present mind
to spin its webs and bind.
Only the present acts,
begins and ceases,
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poem by Brian Taylor
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A love slave's shanty to a goddess...
I'd like to look for—the spry-blossom, called Phoebe
There is nought as virtuous, or saintly, as the white gypsy...
I'd like to find me—that last green forget-me-not
What matter the cost, if I don't hit the jackpot...
I'd like to look for—the pale goddess of the moon;
She unto me should be a sun, and I her Neptune!
If she would but, peel me in her "bergamot-palm
...Sister of Apollo". I'd shyly-sing my last, psalm...
Lie with me; with the trident in Poseidon, crowned:
Enter within me, all thy eternity newly bound...
Love, let no mountain-shade you're innate-fancy
Earthquake: Wild horses, shall not tether my fiancée.
Like the smoking-waves upon the sirens-shore
I'll descend to meet her when, the rocks of thunder-roar.
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poem by Mark Heathcote
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When I listen to Camel’s song, “For today”
I tethered my thoughts to a mournful tune
which held them above the abyss.
It cradled and comforted, succour, so soon
I was kept from the edge of the dark precipice.
That place where the faces of phantoms collide
with the snap-shots of summers locked deep in our soul.
The dreams mix with memories, rocking the tide
so the ebb and the flow can but coax or cajole.
All the pain that was instant, instead of prolonged
may have stolen the beat from those thousands of hearts
May this tune guide them home, back where they once belonged.
When the anger subsides and the healing then starts.
Yes I tether my thoughts on a mournful tune,
with a pause for a breath at the break in the score.
May it carry my hopes in its silken cocoon
till the screams of the lost, need be heard here no more.
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poem by Hola Mentirosa
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Joy and Anger
Joy is an overwhelming feeling to be happy,
But more, To feel so delighted with God, you see;
It's an awesome happiness, that makes one delighted within,
A life so pleased and coping cause God's taken away their sin.
Anger is a time of hurts, and feelings of terrible fury,
That you just see everything negative, one's mind is blurry;
It gets one so mad at everyone who'll disagree with you,
And all you do, is to get into a tether, and end in a stew.
Joy is like a rainbow, such beauty and glowing for all to see,
It makes one laugh, To feel delighted at the smallest bee;
It's a gift from the Lord, That remains with you to share,
And when you think it's enough, there's plenty always to spare.
Anger will get one down, it's like a black cloud that won't go away,
But if we don't deal with it, anger will be in your subconscious to stay;
Anger can cause one to bring much strife more than you need,
So please deal with it first, go to God, and certainly plead.
poem by Margaret Haig
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The Talisman
Where the sea forever dances
Over lonely cliff and dune,
Where sweet twilight's vapor glances
In a warmer-glowing moon,
Where with the seraglio's graces
Daylong toys the Mussulman,
An enchantress 'mid embraces
Handed me a talisman.
'Mid embraces I was bidden:
"Guard this talisman of mine:
In it secret power is hidden!
Love himself has made it thine.
Neither death nor ills nor aging,
My beloved, does it ban,
Nor in gales and tempest raging
Can avail my talisman.
Never will it help thee gather
Treasures of the Orient coast,
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poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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Career
Tether the cow to the post of your patience
and wait
First make ready the field in which you choose to let her loose
There where no lilacs grow
nor lotuses in the pond of your astrological gaze
If you haven't enough cut-grass in the loft
Make sure your sickle doesn't rake through touch-me-nots and lallang
You may only prepare the pasturing ground
You cannot make your cow browse in it
all her dogged years
her udder bitten
fangs sunk in stealth
milk mixed with venom
milched in terror
suckling in fear
You may not clear your fields
of
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poem by T. Wignesan
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