Quotes about weal
Wainwright’s Wheel’s Weal Rights Wane
WAINWRIGHT'S WEAL RIGHTS WANE
Though tales turn legends over time,
and myths begin when legends fade,
what part of myth with truth may rhyme,
what soul against sole feather weighed
may find past actions well repaid ?
When all’s said, done, deeds scarce sublime.
Life desert seems till time to go
with post deserted on the job,
far from youth's spinning vertigo
age makes do with conditioned lob,
cobber clobbered ends as slob
beneath Time's sands, tune dune blown woe.
Strife's tragedy, life's glory's reign,
dust rust as fractious fractal sand,
at dusk Time's Wheel still turns, refrain
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Book III - Part 02 - Nature And Composition Of The Mind
First, then, I say, the mind which oft we call
The intellect, wherein is seated life's
Counsel and regimen, is part no less
Of man than hand and foot and eyes are parts
Of one whole breathing creature. But some hold
That sense of mind is in no fixed part seated,
But is of body some one vital state,-
Named "harmony" by Greeks, because thereby
We live with sense, though intellect be not
In any part: as oft the body is said
To have good health (when health, however, 's not
One part of him who has it), so they place
The sense of mind in no fixed part of man.
Mightily, diversly, meseems they err.
Often the body palpable and seen
Sickens, while yet in some invisible part
We feel a pleasure; oft the other way,
A miserable in mind feels pleasure still
Throughout his body- quite the same as when
A foot may pain without a pain in head.
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poem by Lucretius
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Marmion: Canto V. - The Court
I.
The train has left the hills of Braid;
The barrier guard have open made
(So Lindesay bade) the palisade,
That closed the tented ground;
Their men the warders backward drew,
And carried pikes as they rode through
Into its ample bound.
Fast ran the Scottish warriors there,
Upon the Southern band to stare.
And envy with their wonder rose,
To see such well-appointed foes;
Such length of shaft, such mighty bows,
So huge, that many simply thought,
But for a vaunt such weapons wrought;
And little deemed their force to feel,
Through links of mail, and plates of steel,
When rattling upon Flodden vale,
The clothyard arrows flew like hail.
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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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The Four Seasons : Winter
See, Winter comes, to rule the varied year,
Sullen and sad, with all his rising train;
Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme,
These! that exalt the soul to solemn thought,
And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms,
Congenial horrors, hail! with frequent foot,
Pleased have I, in my cheerful morn of life,
When nursed by careless Solitude I lived,
And sung of Nature with unceasing joy,
Pleased have I wander'd through your rough domain;
Trod the pure virgin-snows, myself as pure;
Heard the winds roar, and the big torrent burst;
Or seen the deep-fermenting tempest brew'd,
In the grim evening sky. Thus pass'd the time,
Till through the lucid chambers of the south
Look'd out the joyous Spring, look'd out, and smiled.
To thee, the patron of her first essay,
The Muse, O Wilmington! renews her song.
Since has she rounded the revolving year:
Skimm'd the gay Spring; on eagle-pinions borne,
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poem by James Thomson
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Moderate Men and Moderate Measures
Praise to placeless proud ability,
Let the prudent muse disclaim;
And sing the Statesman--all civility--
Whom moderate talents raise to fame.
He, no random projects urging,
Make us wild alarms to feel;
With moderate measures, gently purging
Ills that prey on Britain's weal.
CHORUS.
Gently purging,
Gently purging,
Gently purging Britain's weal.[1]
Addington, with measured motion,
Keep the tenor of thy way;
To glory yield no rash devotion,
Led by luring lights astray;
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poem by George Canning
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The King (II)
And now a son has come again
To keep the peace or strike the blow,
And have a long, great, glorious reign,
Through calm or tempest, weal or woe.
And strange things set me wondering –
As man and youth, we knew him here,
The one the only British King,
To see his Southern Hemisphere.
‘Midst pealing bells and cannons’ din
The countless thousands cheer and strive
To catch one glance of their new King
And queenly Mary, his fair bride;
‘Til on their knees, within the Fane,
The Royal couple meekly kneel,
The Great God’s clemency to claim,
And pray Him for their people’s weal.
And so I see, in vision clear,
The long reign of this noble line,
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poem by Henry Lawson
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The Lonely Dancer
I had no heart to join the dance,
I danced it all so long ago-
Ah! light-winged music out of France,
Let other feet glide to and fro,
Weaving new patterns of romance
For bosoms of new-fallen snow.
But leave me thus where I may hear
The leafy rustle of the waltz,
The shell-like murmur in my ear,
The silken whisper fairy-false
Of unseen rainbows circling near,
And the glad shuddering of the walls.
Another dance the dancers spin,
A shadow-dance of mystic pain,
And other partners enter in
And dance within my lonely brain-
The swaying woodland shod in green,
The ghostly dancers of the rain;
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poem by Richard Le Gallienne
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Cusps
CUSPS
Cusps convergent redivide
Unexpectedly, conceal
Spiel links. Cause, Effect, reveal
Pre-destination never. None inside
Subtle riddles read, none ride
COherently around rune wheel,
None key, tune into, Future’s weal.
Vainly humankind has tried
Explaining karma to provide
‘Real’ explanations for Life’s reel –
Gu[s]t gest jest conundrum sealed,
Ephemeral both ebb and tide.
Connections karmic can’t collide,
Unerringly rule, school, unreel
Silk threads slippery as eel,
Prepare tomorrows far and wide,
Synchronicity complied.
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Ode XII: To Sir Francis Henry Drake, Baronet
I.
Behold; the Balance in the sky
Swift on the wintry scale inclines:
To earthy caves the Dryads fly,
And the bare pastures Pan resigns.
Late did the farmer's fork o'erspread
With recent soil the twice-mown mead,
Tainting the bloom which autumn knows:
He whets the rusty coulter now,
He binds his oxen to the plough,
And wide his future harvest throws.
II.
Now, London's busy confines round,
By Kensington's imperial towers,
From Highgate's rough descent profound,
Essexian heaths, or Kentish bowers,
Where'er i pass, i see approach
Some rural statesman's eager coach
Hurried by senatorial cares:
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poem by Mark Akenside
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Thomas the Rhymer
True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;
A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e;
And there he saw a ladye bright
Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.
Her skirt was o' the grass-green silk,
Her mantle o' the velvet fyne;
At ilka tett o' her horse's mane,
Hung fifty siller bells and nine.
True Thomas he pu'd aff his cap,
And louted low down on his knee
'Hail to thee Mary, Queen of Heaven!
For thy peer on earth could never be.'
'O no, O no, Thomas' she said,
'That name does not belang to me;
I'm but the Queen o' fair Elfland,
That am hither come to visit thee.
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poem by Anonymous
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