Quotes about wolf', page 9
Dignified
The wolf watched everything in sight
While he heard every sound,
For soon he'd run with all his might
Across the unturned ground...
No farmer ploughed across this land,
The wolf was on his own,
No creature there to understand
His hunger that had grown...
So there he stayed before his crime,
As if quite dignified,
So statuesque, so cute, sublime,
Yet starving deep inside...
Of course, he'd done this all before...
That's how he still survived,
But, oh, my goodness, what a chore,
Till his next meal arrived...
He licked his lips, let out a sigh,
Then breathed in long and slow...
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poem by Denis Martindale
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Party Freight Night
They were coming from all around
For this party was world renown.
From the European countries they
Gathered about,
with screams of horror
And shrilling shouts.
Frankenstein, Dracula, the Mummy too.
They all knew what they had to do.
Then we had Witches of every kind
Most were ugly, but some were fine.
Then came the werewolf with his family
She wolf, bob wolf, and sue wolf too
They would howl and snap at the moon
Because they knew it would end too soon.
Let us not forget our little goblin friends
They’ll be at the party from
the beginning to the end.
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poem by Louis Rams
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Monster Party
They are having a party at the neighborhood bar
Some they got together well after dark
Oh good grief did you ever see
A monster party on old hallows eve
Frankenstein says, I’ll have another round
But he breaks the chair when he sits down
Wolf man laughs says, Hey, you broke that chair!
Says Frankenstein, I’ll shave that hair!
Dracula he begins to stir
Says I’ll hold him down while you get that fur
Wolf man shakes his head and howls a bit
Don’t go making me mad I’ll go into fits!
The Mummy says Now, he needs his threads!
Oh me oh my, party of the dread
They lock the door, someone hit’s the lights
Did you ever see on hallows eve a monster fight
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poem by Bill Simmons
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Brer Rabbit You's de Cutes' of 'Em All
Once der was a meetin' in de wilderness,
All de critters of creation dey was dar;
Brer Rabbit, Brer 'Possum, Brer Wolf, Brer Fox,
King Lion, Mister Terrapin, Mister B'ar.
De question fu' discussion was, 'Who is de bigges' man?'
Dey 'pinted ole Jedge Owl to decide;
He polished up his spectacles an' put 'em on his nose,
An' to the question slowly he replied:
'Brer Wolf am mighty cunnin',
Brer Fox am mighty sly,
Brer Terrapin an' 'Possum — kinder small;
Brer Lion's mighty vicious,
Brer B'ar he's sorter 'spicious,
Brer Rabbit, you's de cutes' of 'em all.'
Dis caused a great confusion 'mongst de animals,
Ev'y critter claimed dat he had won de prize;
Dey 'sputed an' dey arg'ed, dey growled an' dey roared,
Den putty soon de dus' begin to rise.
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poem by James Weldon Johnson
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Hunting Song of the Seeonee Pack
As the dawn was breaking the Sambhur belled
Once, twice, and again!
And a doe leaped up -- and a doe leaped up
From the pond in the wood where the wild deer sup.
This I, scouting alone, beheld,
Once, twice, and again!
As the dawn was breaking the Sambhur belled
Once, twice, and again!
And a wolf stole back -- and a wolf stole back
To carry the word to the waiting Pack;
And we sought and we found and we bayed on his track
Once, twice, and again!
As the dawn was breaking the Wolf-pack yelled
Once, twice, and again!
Feet in the jungle that leave no mark!
Eyes that can see in the dark -- the dark!
Tongue -- give tongue to it! Hark! O Hark!
Once, twice, and again!
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Ch 02 The Morals Of Dervishes Story 32
Having become tired of my friends in Damascus, I went into the desert of Jerusalem and associated with animals till the time when I became a prisoner of the Franks, who put me to work with infidels in digging the earth of a moat in Tarapolis, when one of the chiefs of Aleppo, with whom I had formerly been acquainted, recognized me and said: ‘What state is this?’ I recited:
‘I fled from men to mountain and desert
Wishing to attend upon no one but God.
Imagine what my state at present is
When I must be satisfied in a stable of wretches.
The feet in chains with friends
Is better than to be with strangers in a garden.’
He took pity on my state and ransomed me for ten dinars from the captivity of the Franks, taking me to Aleppo where he had a daughter and married me to her with a dowry of one hundred dinars. After some time had elapsed, she turned out to be ill-humoured, quarrelsome, disobedient, abusive in her tongue and embittering my life:
A bad wife in a good man’s house
Is his hell in this world already.
Alas for a bad consort, alas!
Preserve us, O Lord from the punishment of fire.
Once she lengthened her tongue of reproach and said: ‘Art thou not the man whom my father purchased from the Franks for ten dinars?’ I replied: ‘Yes, he bought me for ten dinars and sold me into thy hands for one hundred dinars.’
I heard that a sheep had by a great man
Been rescued from the jaws and the power of a wolf.
[...] Read more
The Heart Of The Sourdough
There where the mighty mountains bare their fangs unto the moon,
There where the sullen sun-dogs glare in the snow-bright, bitter noon,
And the glacier-glutted streams sweep down at the clarion call of June.
There where the livid tundras keep their tryst with the tranquil snows;
There where the silences are spawned, and the light of hell-fire flows
Into the bowl of the midnight sky, violet, amber and rose.
There where the rapids churn and roar, and the ice-floes bellowing run;
Where the tortured, twisted rivers of blood rush to the setting sun --
I've packed my kit and I'm going, boys, ere another day is done.
* * * * *
I knew it would call, or soon or late, as it calls the whirring wings;
It's the olden lure, it's the golden lure, it's the lure of the timeless things,
And to-night, oh, God of the trails untrod, how it whines in my heart-strings!
I'm sick to death of your well-groomed gods, your make believe and your show;
I long for a whiff of bacon and beans, a snug shakedown in the snow;
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poem by Robert William Service
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Wolfblood
She looks like a schoolgirl, but a dark secret she hides;
It is only in her own kind, that she feels able to confide.
Whenever there's a full moon, her human form morphs
Into the sleek and unmistakable form of a female wolf.
In human form, when feelings of anger take ahold,
Her eyes immediately flash the colour of liquid gold.
Whenever she feels threatened, she lets out a roar;
Her once brave assailants will then run away for sure.
With a face full of fury and her sharp teeth bared,
The humans about her feel both shocked and scared.
Her primal cravings for meat, she must learn to control;
She must learn how to pacify her true Wolfblood soul.
As she grows older, she has so many things to learn.
So many unanswered questions inside her still burn.
The blood of wolves pulses through her every vein;
Trying to keep such a secret, drives her almost insane.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Very Like a Whale
One thing that literature would be greatly the better for
Would be a more restricted employment by the authors of simile and
metaphor.
Authors of all races, be they Greeks, Romans, Teutons or Celts,
Can't seem just to say that anything is the thing it is but have to
go out of their way to say that it is like something else.
What does it mean when we are told
That that Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold?
In the first place, George Gordon Byron had enough experience
To know that it probably wasn't just one Assyrian, it was a lot of
Assyrians.
However, as too many arguments are apt to induce apoplexy and
thus hinder longevity.
We'll let it pass as one Assyrian for the sake of brevity.
Now then, this particular Assyrian, the one whose cohorts were
gleaming in purple and gold,
Just what does the poet mean when he says he came down like a
wold on the fold?
In heaven and earth more than is dreamed of in our philosophy
there are great many things.
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poem by Ogden Nash
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Beddgelert - (pron. Beth-gelert)
‘There once was a Prince called Llywelyn, Dai bach,
The Lord of this Snowdon Wales,
Back in the mists of the mountain, when times
Saw wolves leave their blood-stained trails.'
(I sat by the Church of St. Mary out there,
The vicar stared out on his fold,
His rheumy old eyes held the myth and the lies
That the Welsh told the people of old!)
I listened, he spoke, and I doubted him then,
The story he told so bizarre,
But when he had finished, I baited my breath,
Walked musingly back to my car.
Llywelyn, the hunter, was given a hound,
A present from England's King John,
A mighty wolf hound that he treasured and took
On his hunting trips, loping along.
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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