Quotes about intertwine, page 8
Woman To Man
You do but jest, sir, and you jest not well,
How could the hand be enemy of the arm,
Or seed and sod be rivals! How could light
Feel jealousy of heat, plant of the leaf
Or competition dwell 'twixt lip and smile?
Are we not part and parcel of yourselves?
Like strands in one great braid we intertwine
And make the perfect whole. You could not be,
Unless we gave you birth; we are the soil
From which you sprang, yet sterile were that soil
Save as you planted. (Though in the Book we read
One woman bore a child with no man's aid
We find no record of a man-child born
Without the aid of woman! Fatherhood
Is but a small achievement at the best
While motherhood comprises heaven and hell.)
This ever-growing argument of sex
Is most unseemly, and devoid of sense.
Why waste more time in controversy, when
There is not time enough for all of love,
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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Propped Against The Wall
beneath the thunderous clap
of coming storm,
shadows scurry from limb to limb.
sunlight weeps through pregnant clouds,
and the spider builds his web.
with the feathered taste of sparrow's wings,
in the rhythm of marching ants.
logs cut and split, stacked against the house,
the spicket drips, and no one cares.
poverty tugs at the walls,
while voices tense with hunger's beat,
are lost in empty rooms.
children run between the cars,
with dirty faces, without shoes.
dogs bark from rib cages exposed,
as water boils on the stove.
the smell of time and elderly feet,
fans turn in paint peeled windows.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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I Saw Him Again
I saw him again.
The last time I found him
Eating fervent fire and drinking wine
Reveling in the elegiac dusk
Uttering of cheap talks and of dusts
And on how vicariously cognizant he was
On how it precipitates and wan
From defying the plummeting
To catch the sun's elusive graze
To participate and transpire
In the esoteric feast of grace
Thus, he's reveling, to outlast.
I saw him again.
The last time I exhumed him
Thawed in the nook of the world
Like a vulpine fox, a surreptitious raven,
Perched at the hinges of the firmament
Wearily encumbered by his wry and fake smile
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poem by Norman Santos
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Hello Strangers
Hello Stranger,
Are you still on the line?
How long had we been ghosts?
How far had we gone?
In the stretched out expanse,
Impasse the inevitable instance
Have you made yourself fine?
In a one way subway,
Buried in the silver light
Will you still recognize my face?
In a sea of a thousand crowd?
Well, you were never gone
You reek in the air I breathe
In and out, over my grip.
That proverbial enough
Had we fooled ourselves gladly?
Is the familiar longing enough?
Hello Stranger,
Is the mirror too blunt?
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poem by Norman Santos
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The City In The Sea
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters he.
No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently-
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free-
Up domes- up spires- up kingly halls-
Up fanes- up Babylon-like walls-
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
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poem by Edgar Allan Poe
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Recovery
The injured eagle soars on an alabaster wing
The wounded humpback does not sing
The choir of summer birds have ceased to resound.
And the sinister forces have finally won.
The pointless laughter of children is not present
But in their place, the brazen wailing of my heart, in torment.
I can feel this and look onward
Toward the great heights
I'm not in hell nor alone
Whilst my ego, engraves my tombstone.
Such bitter despair
My heart is torn in two
The woman I loved was torn from me
And took with her a chunk of me
My smile lives on only in my head
I have joy but it is deeply disguised
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poem by Nicholas Rahming
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Troubadour à Muse
Should you stay fey Troubadour’s muse,
walls would fall heeding need's call, I swear,
souls united, delighted, all share,
with only bemusement to lose.
On days dark, in the dumps, much the blues,
with a butterfly touch, laughter rare,
Cupid's bow, Zephyr's blow, would declare
Cinderella should don dancing shoes.
Enchantment spells well to enthuse
rejoicing that naught could impair,
jubilation, creation, forms stair
to heaven through rainbow as woos
heart to heart once apart, each takes cues
up, around, to rebound, well may dare
answer call of the wild, child repair
to prepare transformation's true hues.
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Days of the Sun
A spill of crimson engulfs the lusty fringing line
Whilst cobalt and mauve bicker to intertwine
And saturate in a gelid-steely hue to define
The girth and skin of the poignant horizon
As the gloaming dawn close to topple the occasion
How many colors does the dusk possess?
And why these few tarry on my firmament?
The plethora of sunsets I obstinately watched
Cannot descry what destitution beguiles
So I count and gaze, on an on, without a mind
A phalanx can beckon the exodus in His corolla,
Obstruct the panorama and anticipate the doom
As it esplanade through a month of setting suns
Futilely for the sunrise yonder its tawny cape
That never comes around, never fixes me bound
Of His elegiac maladroit songs by crickets and cicadas
Somnolent brewed to regurgitate the pensive calculations
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poem by Norman Santos
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Influence of Natural Objects
Wisdom and Spirit of the universe!
Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought!
And giv'st to forms and images a breath
And everlasting motion! not in vain,
By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
The passions that build up our human soul;
Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man;
But with high objects, with enduring things,
With life and nature; purifying thus
The elements of feeling and of thought,
And sanctifying by such discipline
Both pain and fear,--until we recognise
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me
With stinted kindness. In November days,
When vapours rolling down the valleys made
A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods
At noon; and 'mid the calm of summer nights,
When, by the margin of the trembling lake,
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poem by William Wordsworth
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Sephina
Black lacqueys at the wide-flung door
Stand mute as men of wood.
Gleams like a pool the ballroom floor —
A burnished solitude.
A hundred waxen tapers shine
From silver sconces; softly pine
'Cello, fiddle, mandoline,
To music deftly wooed —
And dancers in cambric, satin, silk,
With glancing hair and cheeks like milk,
Wreathe, curtsey, intertwine.
The drowse of roses lulls the air
Wafted up the marble stair.
Like warbling water clucks the talk.
From room to room in splendour walk
Guests, smiling in the æry sheen;
Carmine and azure, white and green,
They stoop and languish, pace and preen
Bare shoulder, painted fan,
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poem by Walter de la Mare
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