Quotes about ramble, page 9
A Letter Written For My Son To A Young Gentleman
Dear Jack, whilst you thro' Flanders roam,
Can you forget your Friends at Home?
Say, will your Tutors give you Time
To write to Hereticks in Rhyme?
A Name they brand us with, dear Youth,
And we affirm they injure Truth.
The sacred Page before us lies,
Which you lock up from vulgar Eyes.
In vain to Men a Light is giv'n,
To point them out the Path to Heav'n;
If, lest their Sight should make them stray,
Their Guides alone must see the Way.
I fancy now you answer thus:
Lord! what's Divinity to us?
This serious Subject is unfit.
To exercise a School--boy's Wit;
Then talk of other Matters, Con.
Inform me how your Class goes on:
Are you, poor Boys! at School To--day,
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poem by Mary Barber
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Moment to Shine (Know My Name)
The pattern is there, it is striped like a candy cane
It is there because of you,
The scars are true, as true as the pain.
My mind is racing away from you,
You are the one that caused my agony, my sorrow,
The days are always the same never new.
The days always bring me to your feet,
I am your servant, your toy,
I do what you say and hide the pain, I hide in defeat.
You treat me like I am there for you to use,
All you do is tell me what you think, never letting me tell you
I only sit and listen as you ramble on, and i am used.
I want to rise above, but I cant loose you,
If i loose you i loose all my friends,
I'd be alone, completely, utterly, alone, never being able to start new.
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poem by Bethany Maxwell
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An Indian Mother About to Destroy Her Child
Awhile she lay all passive to the touch
Of those small fingers, and the soft, soft lips
Soliciting the sweet nutrition thence,
While yearning sympathy crept round her heart,
She felt her spirit yielding to the charm,
That wakes the parent in the fellest bosom,
And binds her to her little one for ever,
If once completed - but she broke - she broke it.
For she was brooding o'er her sex's wrongs,
And seem'd to lie among a nest of scorpions,
That stung remorse to frenzy: - forth she sprung,
And with collected might a moment stood,
Mercy and misery struggling in her thoughts,
Yet both impelling her to one dire purpose.
There was a little grave already made,
But two spans long, in the turf floor beside her,
By him who was the father of that child;
Thence he had sallied when the work was done,
To hunt, to fish, to ramble on the hills,
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poem by James Montgomery
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Broughty Ferry
Ancient Castle of Broughty Ferry
With walls as strong as Londonderry;
Near by the sea-shore,
Where oft is heard and has been heard the cannon's roar
In the present day and days of yore,
Loudly echoing from shore to shore.
From your impregnable ramparts high
Like the loud thunder in the sky
Enough to frighten a foreign foe away
That would dare to come up the river Tay,
To lay siege to Bonnie Dundee,
I'm sure your cannon-balls wouId make them flee--
Home again to their own land
Because your cannon shot they could not withstand,
They would soon be glad to get away
From the beautiful shores of the silvery Tay.
Ancient Castle, near by Tayside,
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poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Sesquipedalian (With Apologies To Ogden Nash)
My poems are somewhat, in fact quite a lot, not to put too fine a point on it, just a bit or, notwithstanding everything else I will say, a great deal sesquipedalian;
They are packed full, to wit, of long-winded words that don’t fit and ululating complicated and multi-syllabic, incomprehensible terms that feel almost alien.
I’m not sure if, for cash, that flash, brash Ogden Nash hasn’t had the notion of creating this version; if not, then he should have done
Or whether, if other bards in that scene had thought really hard of a means of fitting “sesquipedalian” in, they would have done.
But these trite tongue-twisters titillate the tonsils and test the talker
And I like lines that don’t quite rhyme, even though they ought to.
My odes ramble on as I try to make simile and metaphor fit.
I think it’s fine fun and that they just sound better for it.
But some of that ilk try to milk your emotions
With a totally misplaced unfounded notion
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poem by C. Richard Miles
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Nothing's Perfect
I heard imagination goes beyond horizon
But will it till a day with no sun!
I heard thoughts ramble faster than light
But will they till about your life depart! !
I heard animals have the future to sense
But what’s the use if no reaction hence! ! !
I culminate thus there isn’t a single thing
That in the world is perfect and living.
One thing but smashed my stances to vain
It is my love I saw in the rain.
Escorting the charisma in the nature,
She passed by leaving a lovely lustre.
‘Love in this world is perfect my son’
I heard a voice somewhere unknown.
There was no reflex in me at all
I rather ratified my defeat after all.
Her picture still is in my heart
Until again I saw her and thought
She’s the one for me god made,
She’s my shadow even in the shade.
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poem by BhanuPrakash Singh
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Nightmare On A Dead End Path To Hell
I don’t have an honest inclination to reflect
On why I am not now or have never been
A part of the whole picture thingamajig
Or why every wildflower under the sun has conceded
To the superiority of the ramble weeds
That they of the many varieties have been forsaken, over all others
And the brambles should then reign the more powerful seed
Being carried by the winds and birds to the ends of the earth
That hellish thorns and twisted vines of overgrowth should
Block the blessed path to Man's epiphany
Of being crowned the chosen one at length
It is that we must now take and trek the hard cold truth
Remembered to all the Angels as mere mortals
Mortals who have tasted the forbidden fruit
From the hand of our own former rib
And who without a guitar or harmonica reed properly tuned
In the key of C
We are just so many weak men worn from the rock of ages
Nothing more than simple grains of sands so to speak
Or just so many men as Dylan said who are trying in vain...
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poem by Ted Sheridan
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Happiness And Joy
when you look for yourself and find
this self
within your heart
and you touch this self
so lovingly
with the understanding of your mind
you have found happiness
like you put your hands behind your back
and embrace your shoulders
fleeting and sometimes
tiring this search
of self that ends sometimes
in questioning
how long does this last?
this won't
it will pass but it may come again
but to last
it will not
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Catharina
She came--she is gone--we have met--
And meet perhaps never again;
The sun of that moment is set,
And seems to have risen in vain.
Catharina has fled like a dream
(So vanishes pleasure, alas!)--
But has left a regret and esteem
That will not so suddenly pass.
The last evening ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,
Our progress was often delay’d
By the nightingale warbling nigh.
We paused under many a tree,
And much she was charm'd with a tone,
Less sweet to Maria and me,
Who so lately had witness'd her own.
My numbers that day she had sung,
And gave them a grace so divine,
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poem by William Cowper
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To James Boswell in London
Boswell - you old rake - I have tried to imitate
your style; but it is no use; my dialogues are
all between my selves: and though I sit up late,
make endless notes and jottings that I hope will jar
my memory - it is in vain - for in the end
I have no Dr. Johnson but myself.
The difference is (I think) between our lives. You spend
the morning at the coffee house, nourish yourself
with talk and kippers before proceeding on to dine.
A ramble across London perks the appetite.
Every step is an adventure; the written line
distills itself from life. How can you help but write?
I consort with books while you see men, haunt the shelves
where your London lies buried. Your book once opened,
I become the ghost, a pale phantom who delves
into your life to borrow moments penned
two hundred years ago. I roam your world ignored -
while my own life, waiting outside, questions my motives.
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poem by Erica Jong
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