Quotes about ramble, page 8
The Dog and the Water Lily. No Fable
The noon was shady, and soft airs
Swept Ouse’s silent tide,
When, ‘scaped from literary cares,
I wander’d on his side.
My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
And high in pedigree
(Two nymphs adorn’d with every grace
That spaniel found for me),
Now wanton’d lost in flags and reeds,
Now starting into sight,
Pursued the swallow o’er the meads
With scarce a slower flight.
It was the time when Ouse display’d
His lilies newly blown;
Their beauties I intent survey’d,
And one I wish’d my own.
With cane extended far I sought
To steer it close to land;
But still the prize, though nearly caught,
Escaped my eager hand.
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poem by William Cowper
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They Could Not Wait To Leap To Their Feet
There is one unmistakable thing,
That being unprepared does.
It almost guarantees,
There will be a delivery of embarrassment.
Of the most unusual kind.
Especially when people,
Have been exhausted out of their minds.
When one is not ready for a presentation,
But volunteers to represent...
As the moderator of an upcoming event.
And has been given the time,
With a list of topics from which to pick.
And to initiate a discussion...
With a knowledged of the topic one has selected.
This can certainly be avoided.
And yet,
There still will be those...
Unaccustomed to appear as if they represent idiots,
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Treadmill Song
The stars are rolling in the sky,
The earth rolls on below,
And we can feel the rattling wheel
Revolving as we go.
Then tread away, my gallant boys,
And make the axle fly;
Why should not wheels go round about,
Like planets in the sky?
Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged man,
And stir your solid pegs
Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend,
And shake your spider legs;
What though you’re awkward at the trade,
There’s time enough to learn, -—Â
So lean upon the rail, my lad,
And take another turn.
They’ve built us up a noble wall,
To keep the vulgar out;
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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America for Me
'Tis fine to see the Old World and travel up and down
Among the famous palaces and cities of renown,
To admire the crumblyh castles and the statues and kings
But now I think I've had enough of antiquated things.
So it's home again, and home again, America for me!
My heart is turning home again and there I long to be,
In the land of youth and freedom, beyond the ocean bars,
Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.
Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air;
And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair;
And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great to study Rome;
But when it comes to living there is no place like home.
I like the German fir-woods in green battalions drilled;
I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing foutains filled;
But, oh, to take your had, my dear, and ramble for a day
In the friendly western woodland where Nature has her sway!
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poem by Henry Van Dyke
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An American in Europe
'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down
Among the famous palaces and cities of renown,
To admire the crumbly castles and the statues of the kings, --
But now I think I've had enough of antiquated things.
So it's home again, and home again, America for me!
My heart is turning home again, and there I long to be,
In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean bars,
Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.
Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air;
And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair;
And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great to study Rome;
But when it comes to living there is no place like home.
I like the German fir-woods, in green battalions drilled;
I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing fountains filled;
But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble for a day
In the friendly western woodland where Nature has her way!
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poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Perchance to Sleep
She remembers how he
Would watch her sleep
His eyes running over her
From toes to the top of her
Head and she pretending
To be asleep taking control
Of her breathing being the
Actress putting on a show
Keeping her limbs just so
And now and then to move
Them as she would in sleep
No doubt move a little shift
About and she recalls how
Once he touched her and
She had to keep utterly
Frozen her limbs stiff trying
To keep him out of her inner
Being and that touch he gave
Lingered over her thigh and
Then moved along it softly
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poem by Terry Collett
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Poem For A Poem
She asks me
What is a poem?
Her shapely nose,
Her lips like two slices of water melon,
Her eyes reflecting clear blue sky,
Her thick hair like dark grey clouds,
Her horizon-like forehead
Are poems.
Frolicking of children,
Gossiping old women,
Cheering buddies gathered to spend an evening together,
Waiting travellers with carry-on bags in hand,
Strolling couples in a park, picnickers,
Are all features of a poem.
Lively sunlight warming the sanitorium stairs,
A nude poster,
A gypsy girl,
Are poems.
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poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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Peace Not Into Pieces.
I refused to remain silent,
While our future is lost,
To senseless violences and wars,
We've died enough,
And have cried enough red seas,
But where's the strong source,
Our love inside of us?
A child's tear into floods,
In the west Nile and
The dry karamoja areas,
Ramble in the potholed kampala of aches,
A mother without a mouth,
And a baby on her back,
Tryna scream out for peace
Not into pieces,
All we want is peace not into pieces.
I know you know what
Besigye really wants......
Elias Lukwago and Betty Nambooze,
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poem by Kiyaga Lyttle Cephas
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The Reply Of Q. Horatius Flaccus To A Roman
Good friends, you urge my Odes grow trite,
And that of worthless station,
Of fleeting youth and joy, I write
With endless iteration.
But say, in mortals, base or great,
Have you a change detected?
Are they, when victors, less elate,
When vanquished, less dejected?
Do they no more in mundane mire
For golden garbage scramble?
Or, but companioned with the lyre,
Up twisting Anio ramble?
Hath fortune ceased to prove a jade?
Hath favour waxed less fickle?
Hath shamed Bellona dropped her blade,
Or Death put up his sickle?
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poem by Alfred Austin
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Dead!
Hush! or you'll wake her. Softly tread!
She slumbers in her little bed.
What do I see? A coffin! Dead?
Yes, dead at break of morning.
No, no, it cannot, cannot be!
I know that I can wake her. See!
She only plays at sleep. Ma mie,
Kiss me, for it is morning.
Look, pretty, look! Within, without,
Snowdrops and hyacinths lie about.
Why don't you clutch them with a shout
Blither than birds of morning?
You used to clap your hands with glee,
When I brought flowers. ``Are these for me?''
Now, now, you neither scent nor see
These incense-buds of morning.
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poem by Alfred Austin
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