Quotes about vista, page 9
Two Sonnets From The Spanish Of Francisco De Medrano
Causa la vista el artificio humano, etc.
The works of human artifice soon tire
The curious eye; the fountain's sparkling rill,
And gardens, when adorned by human skill,
Reproach the feeble hand, the vain desire.
But oh! the free and wild magnificence
Of Nature in her lavish hours doth steal,
In admiration silent and intense,
The soul of him who hath a soul to feel.
The river moving on its ceaseless way,
The verdant reach of meadows fair and green,
And the blue hills that bound the sylvan scene,--
These speak of grandeur, that defies decay,--
Proclaim the Eternal Architect on high,
Who stamps on all his works his own eternity.
II. THE TWO HARVESTS
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Verisimilitude of Grandiose I: Children's Party
Open the enthralling jar of the leprechaun and
Stifle upon the acrimonious taste in your tongue
Aggrandized by saccharine pebbles and cotton puffs
And find the candor dulcet of the plaguing jinx
In a Trip-To-Jerusalem ensconced in the vista
Of an eternal child, ministered by the bouffant sierras
Of the ad valorem toll of a children's party.
As you watch a grotesque clown in the frontline
Contorting a tepid balloon into a highfalutin swine
But nary a musing as the torsion of the eerie melancholia
Beneath the feint of the robustness and plethora
Of halcyon slapstick jokes and smeared rouges,
Or, as your vision attends the little gamine's fumbling
In ballasting the weight of innocuous zeal and ardor
And of the weight of the undulating hammer
That her unripe and feeble body ineptly juggles
To bludgeon the whimsical dangling of the piñata
And swoon over the accolade of rapture upon its rupture
While the knowing ones kept on sculling her heels
With a mendacious blindfold from the harshness of veracity
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poem by Norman Santos
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A UFO of Night or Mind?
He focused on the waters. Above, an
Overhanging vista: layers of hues
Were blending in complexity,
Tuning in the sky's allure – the blues
Had darkened overhead, revealing
What he really sought - the minor streak
Could not have been a meteor.
An easy thrum had underlined a sleek
And ever-growing yellow core,
Pursued by dancing tails of teasing fire;
His hopeful eyes adapting, peering,
Smoothing out the contrast. A glorious choir
Trilled inside the power plant,
Harmonising in the pitch of black.
The trail of dazzling effluence had
Harkened him to bend, arch his back;
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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A Farewell
Good-bye, old year, good-bye!
Gentle you were to many as to me,
And so we, meditating, sigh,
Since what hath been will be,
That you must die.
Hark! In the crumbling grey church tower,
Tolls the recording bell
The deeply-sounding solemnising knell
For your last hour.
How quietly you die!
No canonisëd Saint
E'er put life by
With less of struggle or complaint.
You seem to feel nor grief nor pain,
No retrospection vain,
As if, departing, you would have us know
It is not hard to go,
Since pang is none, but only peace, in Death,
And Life it is that suffereth.
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poem by Alfred Austin
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For The New Year
FLUSHED with a crimson sunrise beauty,
The fair new year its promise gave;
Such dreams we had of love, of duty,
Of heights to scale, of foes to brave!
Oh, how hope's fire our future lighted--
How much to do, how much to know,
Yet on its brink we shrank affrighted
A year ago.
And now the year is done--its pleasure
So brief, so bright--its hours of pain;
Some moments' memories we treasure,
Some recollections loathe in vain.
Oh, for a brain where could not waken
Remembrances of purpose crossed,
Of trusts abandoned, aims forsaken,
And chances lost!
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poem by Edith Nesbit
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In Cabin'd Ships At Sea
IN cabin'd ships, at sea,
The boundless blue on every side expanding,
With whistling winds and music of the waves--the large imperious
waves--In such,
Or some lone bark, buoy'd on the dense marine,
Where, joyous, full of faith, spreading white sails,
She cleaves the ether, mid the sparkle and the foam of day, or under
many a star at night,
By sailors young and old, haply will I, a reminiscence of the land,
be read,
In full rapport at last.
Here are our thoughts--voyagers' thoughts,
Here not the land, firm land, alone appears, may then by them be
said; 10
The sky o'erarches here--we feel the undulating deck beneath our
feet,
We feel the long pulsation--ebb and flow of endless motion;
The tones of unseen mystery--the vague and vast suggestions of the
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poem by Walt Whitman
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I Opened The Casements Of My House
I opened the casements of my house
Onto the wild, wild sea
The billows were on it austere and free
The sea-wind with every house-corner neighed
And with the bending palms in the garden played
At dice or in the games of life at will
And still the casements opened and opened
As if by magic trance or guided else
By a thousand small invisible goblin-hands
That from the sea-main seemed to fly and come
Over the billows austere and free
As the sea-wind with every house-corner neighed
And with the bending palms in the garden played
Beyond, beyond the vista low and large
A plain of beach sand lapped by the waves
And here and there an oasis of sweet palms
That bent their olive heads in the winds’ waffling
And coming and going over the sea.
Where the white billows raged saliva-like
Or like bent god-thrones cool and flexible
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poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
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In Rotterdam
I
I gaze upon a city,—
A city new and strange,—
Down many a watery vista
My fancy takes a range;
From side to side I saunter,
And wonder where I am;
And can you be in England,
And I at Rotterdam!
II
Before me lie dark waters
In broad canals and deep,
Whereon the silver moonbeams
Sleep, restless in their sleep;
A sort of vulgar Venice
Reminds me where I am;
Yes, yes, you are in England,
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poem by Thomas Hood
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Little Man Lost at Vespers - Parody A.A. MILNE Vespers
Little man lost in a world with no heart,
little man called upon, playing a part,
hush, hush, whisper who dare,
when will support from society start?
Little man lost, curling up very small
when nobody notices he's there at all,
hush, hush, whisper who dare,
all seems unfair when the cupboard is bare.
Little man lost his job, often apart
from hopes of promotion unless he plays smart,
hush, hush, whisper who dare,
will the votes counted upset apple-cart?
Little man keeling at foot of the bed,
saw gold is dreams, silver wore in hoar head,
hush, hush, whisper who dare,
Christ, no fair Robin Hood's doling fair shares.
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Oh! Blame Not the Bard
Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers
Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame;
He was born for much more, and in happier hours
His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame.
The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,
Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart;
And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire
Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart.
But alas for his country! -- her pride is gone by,
And that spirit is broken which never would bend;
O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,
For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend.
Unprized are her sons, till they've learn'd to betray;
Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires;
And the torch, that would light them through dignity's way,
Must be caught from the pile where their country expires.
Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream
He should try to forget what he never can heal:
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poem by Thomas Moore
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