Quotes about receding
The Naked Ride Home
Just take off your clothes and I'll drive you home I said
Knowing she never could pass on a dare
And knowing it sounded more desperate than reckless or bold
I just put it out there cold, too far gone to care
My eyes on the road, she slid herself down in the seat
And a vision of paradise swung into view
Across those five lanes not one driver glanced over to see
The beauty known only to me, and a big rig or two
On that freeway the light was receding
Her beauty, a sight so misleading
I failed to hear the heart that was beating alone
On the naked ride home
With the trace of a smile and that defiant look in her eye
She hurtled through space in a world of her own
And turning aside my caress spoke of all that she'd not yet done
As if I was the doubting one who would have to be shown
On that freeway the light was receding
Her beauty, a sight so misleading
I failed to hear the heart that was beating alone
On the naked ride home
[...] Read more
song performed by Jackson Browne
Added by Lucian Velea
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She Walks Away
She walks away receding
A framed hardship
Once she chased boys
A child's different corridor
A mind alive then
The moment is grasped
As step by step
Today is no more
Today a gloved hand
Blue against the softness
Caressed her breast flesh
As the pink yielded
This way that way
To a palpable neutrality
Until there just there
A lump has appeared
Today is already yesterday
As step by step
[...] Read more
poem by Michael Oliver
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Here Today, Gone Tomorrow
This sonnet was inspired while celebrating my daughter’s birthday. Everyone was eating cake except me. I hardly ever eat sweets. “A moment on the lips, forever on the hips”. Anyway, while they were enjoying the moment, I began to muse. Later that evening I composed this:
My daughter is older by a year today.
She is thirty-seven. I wonder where
The time has gone It seems to melt away.
It’s like an imperceptible glacier
Receding slowly, leaving once unseen
Destruction bare, exposed to view, behind.
I see what time has etched on me between
A youth of yesteryear and current time.
The mirror reflects wrinkled lines and spots.
And not to mention, but I will! The gray.
And like the ice, receding hair, a lot
Is lost. My exploratory survey?
It can be said, expressed this way: Ahem!
I once had youth but now it’s gone, Amen.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Comfortably Numb
Hello.
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me.
Is there anyone home?
Come on, now.
I hear youre feeling down.
Well I can ease your pain,
Get you on your feet again.
Relax.
I need some information first.
Just the basic facts:
Can you show me where it hurts?
There is no pain, you are receding.
A distant ships smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move but I cant hear what youre sayin.
When I was a child I had a fever.
My hands felt just like two balloons.
Now I got that feeling once again.
I cant explain, you would not understand.
[...] Read more
song performed by Pink Floyd
Added by Lucian Velea
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Comfortably Numb
Hello.
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me.
Is there anyone home?
Come on, now.
I hear youre feeling down.
Well I can ease your pain,
Get you on your feet again.
Relax.
I need some information first.
Just the basic facts:
Can you show me where it hurts?
There is no pain, you are receding.
A distant ships smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move but I cant hear what youre sayin.
When I was a child I had a fever.
My hands felt just like two balloons.
Now I got that feeling once again.
I cant explain, you would not understand.
[...] Read more
song performed by Pink Floyd
Added by Lucian Velea
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Book Sixth [Cambridge and the Alps]
THE leaves were fading when to Esthwaite's banks
And the simplicities of cottage life
I bade farewell; and, one among the youth
Who, summoned by that season, reunite
As scattered birds troop to the fowler's lure,
Went back to Granta's cloisters, not so prompt
Or eager, though as gay and undepressed
In mind, as when I thence had taken flight
A few short months before. I turned my face
Without repining from the coves and heights
Clothed in the sunshine of the withering fern;
Quitted, not loth, the mild magnificence
Of calmer lakes and louder streams; and you,
Frank-hearted maids of rocky Cumberland,
You and your not unwelcome days of mirth,
Relinquished, and your nights of revelry,
And in my own unlovely cell sate down
In lightsome mood--such privilege has youth
That cannot take long leave of pleasant thoughts.
[...] Read more
poem by William Wordsworth
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Courtship of Miles Standish, The
I
MILES STANDISH
In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, --
Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window:
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Courtship of Miles Standish
I
MILES STANDISH
In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, --
Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window:
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Canto the Second
I
Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
It mends their morals, never mind the pain:
The best of mothers and of educations
In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain,
Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, he
Became divested of his native modesty.
II
Had he but been placed at a public school,
In the third form, or even in the fourth,
His daily task had kept his fancy cool,
At least, had he been nurtured in the north;
Spain may prove an exception to the rule,
But then exceptions always prove its worth -—
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.
[...] Read more
poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Sunday Morning - VI
Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
With rivers like our own that seek for seas
They never find, the same receding shores
That never touch with inarticulate pang?
Why set the pear upon those river banks
Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
The silken weavings of our afternoons,
And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
Within whose burning bosom we devise
Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
poem by Wallace Stevens
These verses are part of a series | Full series
Added by Dan Costinaş
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