Quotes about vintage, page 7
La Vierge Au Donateur
Here by the ample river’s argent sweep,
Bosomed in tilth and vintage to her walls,
A tower-crowned Cybele in armoured sleep
The city lies, fat plenty in her halls,
With calm parochial spires that hold in fee
The friendly gables clustered at their base,
And, equipoised o’er tower and market-place,
The Gothic minister’s winged immensity;
And in that narrow burgh, with equal mood,
Two placid hearts, to all life’s good resigned,
Might, from the altar to the lych-gate, find
Long years of peace and dreamless plenitude.
poem by Edith Wharton
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1914 IV: The Dead
the years did to him
like they had to wines
a calmness, mellowness
-submissions to the divine
tempests, victory and loss-
they poured a shade onto him
like amber - leaves that return
a million years to shine like miracles
the halo round the buddha
circled the realms for answers
to every breath, every consciousness
before crowning him with triumph
every year of study of the sutras
brings new understanding,
new awakenings, a clearer sky
the manner vintage wine surprises (greets)
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The extra space
the poet when he attains maturity
in his works is a man distilled
by nature so that his verses
glitter like stars in the sky
his thoughts, his concepts
are a glassful of sparkling
vintage wine the years helped
decloak to reveal its
subtleties and finesse as it
waltzes off the loving warmth
of our tongue
the poet's evey move
will be scrutinised
by an audience who
the poet has helped unloosen
a button on the mind
so that now they think with
a new treasured space
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Autumn III
The Autumn is old,
The sere leaves are flying;—
He hath gather'd up gold,
And now he is dying;—
Old Age, begin sighing!
The vintage is ripe,
The harvest is heaping;—
But some that have sow'd
Have no riches for reaping;—
Poor wretch, fall a-weeping!
The year's in the wane,
There is nothing adorning,
The night has no eve,
And the day has no morning;—
Cold winter gives warning.
The rivers run chill,
The red sun is sinking,
And I am grown old,
And life is fast shrinking;
Here's enow for sad thinking!
poem by Thomas Hood
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Nude Bodies In A Happy Bed
We smile like children
Laughing in a parade,
And your eyes flash a secret code;
Intimate, mystical love
Is revealed and understood;
Flowers greet us
On sunny avenues,
Our joy is like
The tinkling of wine glasses
When vintage wine is served,
We observe tender rituals,
The kissing of cheeks,
Warm embraces in perfumed rooms,
Lingering beneath an erotic moon;
Starlight falls on our nude bodies
In a happy bed,
We banish unpleasant thoughts,
And silence viperous tongues,
The fulfillment of dreams has begun.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Bury st. Edmunds
Visit the abbey in ruin,
Greene king pubs beckoning you in,
Amid bloom see the sights you can,
See links to an age that's Norman,
A charming suffolk market town,
That's known by an arrow shot crown,
Named after the martyr king Edmund,
The true patron saint of England,
Sample the local vintage ales,
Take in the area's folktales,
See the history in Moyse's hall,
Bury cathedral standing tall,
Note what's on at the theatre royal,
At the festival enjoy all,
Walk the lark vale and angel hill,
Fondness a visit will instil.
poem by Christian Lacdael
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Suffolk
A luscious land of fertile soil,
Upon which there's been years of toil,
The towns and villages appeal,
With somewhat of an old world feel,
Traditionally brewed vintage ale,
Many a bizarre quaint tale,
Out on the broads all is tranquil,
A place to be with time to kill,
Once home of witches and fairies,
Now where to live a life of ease,
A history rearing horses,
Home of the grand national races,
Brilliantly vibrant blue skies,
Folk with Anglo and Celtic ties,
A coast that glows with golden sands,
History built on the fenlands.
poem by Christian Lacdael
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A Great Character
The sturdy armchair squatted,
Totally untaxed beneath her frail frame.
Her hands that had yielded all opacity,
Dangled loosely from cardiganed wrists,
The gauze-like skin revealing a road map of veins,
Still transporting their vintage claret.
Her heart yet harboured reserves of joy,
Which leaked girlishly in titters,
For though Alzheimer's had done it's utmost
To blunt the senses,
Her humour remained sharp and defiant.
So too did her compulsion to rebuke parental slipshodiness.
Now it's angels who fear straying from best practise.
poem by Greg Costello
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It Is This Actually My Dear
it is a trip to
nowhere
you do not know where
to start
you do not know where
to stop
you carry yourself but
you want to find it
you seem to hold on to
the usual answers
but you are suspicious
of the questions
you go round and round
but you feel you are on top
and then
you fall and rise and rise
and fall
somehow at the end
of the day
you feel complete and
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Vintage Clone
honing to be in the top and
wanting to come
in a zigzag
rouged road, thou it looks like
pocket in just a dusty
faded vintage cloths
seems like astral blue came mixed with
bubble sky, shifting moment of rare
nod, as strangers say, dine
in my pocket and eat my beautiful cloths
I love it; failure conquer my lust,
melted my shoulders, it dries
and fall to the
Ground and ready to eat my dust
well wisher suddenly call
without occasion, lifted my hour
into a vagabond crook with
glittering shoes of lighted sky
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poem by Antonio Liao
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