Quotes about scoured
The Iliad: Book 23
Thus did they make their moan throughout the city, while the
Achaeans when they reached the Hellespont went back every man to his
own ship. But Achilles would not let the Myrmidons go, and spoke to
his brave comrades saying, "Myrmidons, famed horsemen and my own
trusted friends, not yet, forsooth, let us unyoke, but with horse
and chariot draw near to the body and mourn Patroclus, in due honour
to the dead. When we have had full comfort of lamentation we will
unyoke our horses and take supper all of us here."
On this they all joined in a cry of wailing and Achilles led them in
their lament. Thrice did they drive their chariots all sorrowing round
the body, and Thetis stirred within them a still deeper yearning.
The sands of the seashore and the men's armour were wet with their
weeping, so great a minister of fear was he whom they had lost.
Chief in all their mourning was the son of Peleus: he laid his
bloodstained hand on the breast of his friend. "Fare well," he
cried, "Patroclus, even in the house of Hades. I will now do all
that I erewhile promised you; I will drag Hector hither and let dogs
devour him raw; twelve noble sons of Trojans will I also slay before
your pyre to avenge you."
As he spoke he treated the body of noble Hector with contumely,
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poem by Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
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I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.
quote by William Shakespeare
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Some slaves are scoured to their work by whips, others by their restlessness and ambition.
quote by John Ruskin
Added by Lucian Velea
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182
With you, all secrets end.
Each in turn sweeps over,
breaks on your pedestal,
falls to seething;
recesses scoured
the face fitter than the mask.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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I Had A Little Monkey
I had a little monkey worth ten pound
Who washed up and scrubbed up
And scoured all round
He went upstairs to make his little bed
An' fell in the chamber pot
An' broke his little Head
The first poem I learnt
as a six year old
poem by Ken e Hall
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Things Encyclopaedias don't tell you
Where do bogies go
when you leave them be?
Do they, Dr. Einstein, cling
to the nostril wall until
dessication overbalances the force
of adhesion against gravity, and
they fall on someone's floor?
How can one equate
the working-out
of natural law with
a clean, scoured, functional nostril or
the pleasure of finger food?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Childhood bee
yellow spotted black velvety bee
that came buzzing at the garden
which rages with bougainvellea
of pink, red, and vermillion red
a tree of sour sop
squirrels scoured here
up there, a lumpy dangling fruit
sported a loose crevice
that exhibited the farmer's sore
some red eyed birds
had carved for midday fare
at the mishmash of cabbage leaves
robins had hopped, looked at me
wondering i were friend or foe
neighbour, bent with her frond hat
and weather beaten clothes
worked without a sound
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Love Sonnet 65: My Love, Life Is A Jest, And Strange Enough
My love, life is a jest, and strange enough,
Of all its ironies, choose the kindest,
And know when to confide, or when to bluff,
Of all its murmurs, choose which shouts, loudest;
Love is bee, flaunting nectar it has scoured,
With proboscis for honey to entrain,
But at the other end, when love has soured,
Is sting, that leaves behind very much pain;
But love of mine is pure, as you will find,
No more simple or hard for you to think,
If all my thoughts lend to corrupt your mind,
Like Socrates, I must of hemlock drink;
……Think not these things as bait that hides the hook,
……For all is square, and all done by the book.
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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In Arizona
Take the rounding road west
Of Old Tucson, after the mock gunfight at high noon,
And stop at the Point where the
Grand Sonoran Desert is at its best-
I have scoured that desert
And found things stranger than arrowheads and old cans of A-1 Beer: seashells.
What is that?
Testimony to a forgotten time quite differing. Now the dark desert pavement,
Hardened by the harshest of heat there is,
Is underfoot, and Bigelow's Accursed chollas,
Looking like teddy bears,
Are poised to get you.
Rattlesnakes abound. There is something in the air, the smell of misfortune and ghastly death,
Around the corners of abandoned shacks, hanging black widows,
Broken window panes,
Ghost towns,
Where even the glass
Seems to melt
In your hands.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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The Space Coast
Florida
An Airedale rolling through green frost,
cabbage palms pointing their accusing leaves
at whom, petulant waves breaking at my feet.
I ran from them. Nights, yellow lights
scoured sand. What was ever found
but women in skirts folded around the men
they loved that Friday? No one found me.
And how could that have been, here, where
even botanical names were recorded
and small roads mapped in red?
Night, the sky is black paper pecked with pinholes.
Tortoises push eggs into warm sand.
Was it too late to have come here?
Everything's discovered. Everything's spoken for.
The air smells of salt. My lover's body.
Perhaps it is too late. I want to run
the beach's length, because it never ends.
The barren beach. Airedales grow
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poem by Deborah Ager
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