Nip the briar in the bud.
French proverbs
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Related quotes
Nip It In The Bud
From the time the lights come on,
And from dusk 'til dawn...
You're giving me the lip!
I don't need the clock to ding-a-dong,
Since my peace is gone.
And in my ear you babble lip.
Why can't you nip it in the bud, baybay.
Why can't you handle it?
Nip it in the bud.
Why can't you take a walk as I lay?
Do whatever it takes!
But don't bother me with it!
I don't need the clock to ding-a-dong,
Since my peace is gone.
And in my ear you babble lip.
Why can't you take a walk as I lay?
Do whatever it takes!
And don't bother me with it!
Why can't you nip it in the bud, baybay.
Why can't you handle it?
Nip it in the bud.
Why can't you take a walk as I lay?
Do whatever it takes!
But don't bother me with it!
From the time the lights come on,
And from dusk 'til dawn...
You're giving me the lip!
I don't need the clock to ding-a-dong,
Since my peace is gone.
And in my ear you babble lip.
Why can't you nip this in the bud, baybay.
Why can't you handle it?
Nip it in the bud.
Why can't you take a walk as I lay?
Do whatever it takes!
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Nip This In the Bud and Split
Let's take a 'trip' over the border.
And spread our wings quick,
With unlimited ease.
To fly above what others believe...
To soar,
And reach.
And...
Let's take a 'trip' over the border.
And spread our wings quick,
With unlimited ease.
To fly above what others believe...
To soar,
And reach.
You and I out of hiding can be free.
To get rid of any darkness...
Holding onto us to suppress.
And...
You and I can slip from a safety net.
That has us boxed in perceiving,
All our needs will be met,
If a trusted faith we leave...
Behind us!
Clipped and sitting and afraid to take risks.
Ready to give up.
Ready to quit.
Clipped and sitting and afraid to take risks.
Ready to give up.
Ready to quit.
Clipped and sitting and afraid to take risks.
Ready to give up.
Ready to quit.
No one who trys to fly is bored!
Let's take a 'trip' over the border.
And spread our wings quick,
With unlimited ease.
To fly above what others believe...
To soar,
And reach.
Clipped and sitting and afraid to take risks.
Ready to give up.
Ready to quit.
Nip this in the bud and split.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Briar Rose (Sleeping Beauty)
Consider
a girl who keeps slipping off,
arms limp as old carrots,
into the hypnotist's trance,
into a spirit world
speaking with the gift of tongues.
She is stuck in the time machine,
suddenly two years old sucking her thumb,
as inward as a snail,
learning to talk again.
She's on a voyage.
She is swimming further and further back,
up like a salmon,
struggling into her mother's pocketbook.
Little doll child,
come here to Papa.
Sit on my knee.
I have kisses for the back of your neck.
A penny for your thoughts, Princess.
I will hunt them like an emerald.
Come be my snooky
and I will give you a root.
That kind of voyage,
rank as a honeysuckle.
Once
a king had a christening
for his daughter Briar Rose
and because he had only twelve gold plates
he asked only twelve fairies
to the grand event.
The thirteenth fairy,
her fingers as long and thing as straws,
her eyes burnt by cigarettes,
her uterus an empty teacup,
arrived with an evil gift.
She made this prophecy:
The princess shall prick herself
on a spinning wheel in her fifteenth year
and then fall down dead.
Kaputt!
The court fell silent.
The king looked like Munch's Scream
Fairies' prophecies,
in times like those,
held water.
However the twelfth fairy
had a certain kind of eraser
and thus she mitigated the curse
changing that death
[...] Read more
poem by Anne Sexton
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Some Boys
You've got to,
Nip some boys from the collar.
Be strong and do not 'hollah'.
If you want your boys to stop,
And...
Rise like men to the top!
Some boys...
Do not know what it is to be a man.
They understand only play plans.
Some boys...
Aren't discipline enough to be thinking men.
No comprehension is within them.
You've got to,
Nip some boys from the collar.
Be strong and do not 'hollah'.
If you want your boys to stop,
And...
Rise like men to the top!
Some boys!
You've got to,
Nip some boys from the collar.
Be strong and do not 'hollah'.
If you want your boys to stop,
And...
Rise like men to the top!
Some boys...
Aren't discipline enough to be thinking men.
No comprehension is within them.
Some boys...
Do not know what it is to be a man.
They understand only play plans.
You've got to,
Nip some boys from the collar.
Be strong and do not 'hollah'.
If you want your boys to stop,
And...
Rise like men to the top!
Some boys...
You've got to,
Nip some boys from the collar.
Be strong and do not 'hollah'.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Upwardly MobileBreasts
Upwardly mobile breasts
link together East and West,
occupying cyberspace
to tease, to please, as they unbrace -
spring feeding fantasy oppressed -
that gravity which, second-guessed,
would temper passions. These, apace,
grow, flow with honey, milk, chased chaste.
Man, mammal mammary obsessed,
manhandles, memory manifests
'I' level interest interface_
_sings [t]issues in both good, poor taste,
can't displace attention best
focused elsewhere, soul possessed
by magnet tandem ride, slim waist,
upwardly mobile, undepressed.
D stands for Double bubble laced,
succulence symetric spaced
to dot eyes until life’s digressed
by bridal bridle, dispossessed.
Upwardly mobile breasts -
down and out, or corset pressed,
pear or apple pair set pace.
Fancy free, corset compressed
holding out or, on request,
outstanding assets in life's quest.
'Eye...cons' which, since time, showcased,
imagination ever graced.
Man, mental midget, seems impressed
by mammoth mountains, curves which crest
from chest to rib-cage, touching base
with fancy's fables few detest.
Fun bags balloon 'bove Everest,
peak projections never rest,
[c]rush hour preoccupations taste
angst lest dream disintegrates.
Upwardly mobile breasts -
in the pink, admired with zest, -
swift soar above the commonplace,
'To wit' says one, 'To woo I'll case
the joint to free restraints! ' 'Obsessed! '
replies the other, 'feathered nest.'
Some, spread, taut drawn to taunt Time's haste,
lest silly cones should run to waste.
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Waterfall and The Eglantine
'Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,'
Exclaimed an angry Voice,
'Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self
Between me and my choice!'
A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows
Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose,
That, all bespattered with his foam,
And dancing high and dancing low,
Was living, as a child might know,
In an unhappy home.
II
'Dost thou presume my course to block?
Off, off! or, puny Thing!
I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock
To which thy fibres cling.'
The Flood was tyrannous and strong;
The patient Briar suffered long,
Nor did he utter groan or sigh,
Hoping the danger would be past;
But, seeing no relief, at last,
He ventured to reply.
III
'Ah!' said the Briar, 'blame me not;
Why should we dwell in strife?
We who in this sequestered spot
Once lived a happy life!
You stirred me on my rocky bed--
What pleasure through my veins you spread
The summer long, from day to day,
My leaves you freshened and bedewed;
Nor was it common gratitude
That did your cares repay.
IV
'When spring came on with bud and bell,
Among these rocks did I
Before you hang my wreaths to tell
That gentle days were nigh!
And in the sultry summer hours,
I sheltered you with leaves and flowers;
And in my leaves--now shed and gone,
The linnet lodged, and for us two
Chanted his pretty songs, when you
Had little voice or none.
[...] Read more
poem by William Wordsworth
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The Old-Home Folks
Such was the Child-World of the long-ago--
The little world these children used to know:--
Johnty, the oldest, and the best, perhaps,
Of the five happy little Hoosier chaps
Inhabiting this wee world all their own.--
Johnty, the leader, with his native tone
Of grave command--a general on parade
Whose each punctilious order was obeyed
By his proud followers.
But Johnty yet--
After all serious duties--could forget
The gravity of life to the extent,
At times, of kindling much astonishment
About him: With a quick, observant eye,
And mind and memory, he could supply
The tamest incident with liveliest mirth;
And at the most unlooked-for times on earth
Was wont to break into some travesty
On those around him--feats of mimicry
Of this one's trick of gesture--that one's walk--
Or this one's laugh--or that one's funny talk,--
The way 'the watermelon-man' would try
His humor on town-folks that wouldn't buy;--
How he drove into town at morning--then
At dusk (alas!) how he drove out again.
Though these divertisements of Johnty's were
Hailed with a hearty glee and relish, there
Appeared a sense, on his part, of regret--
A spirit of remorse that would not let
Him rest for days thereafter.--Such times he,
As some boy said, 'jist got too overly
Blame good fer common boys like us, you know,
To '_so_ciate with--less'n we 'ud go
And jine his church!'
Next after Johnty came
His little tow-head brother, Bud by name.--
And O how white his hair was--and how thick
His face with freckles,--and his ears, how quick
And curious and intrusive!--And how pale
The blue of his big eyes;--and how a tale
Of Giants, Trolls or Fairies, bulged them still
Bigger and bigger!--and when 'Jack' would kill
The old 'Four-headed Giant,' Bud's big eyes
Were swollen truly into giant-size.
And Bud was apt in make-believes--would hear
His Grandma talk or read, with such an ear
And memory of both subject and big words,
[...] Read more
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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VII. Pompilia
I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.
All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.
Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Love and Friendship
Love is like the wild rose-briar;
Friendship like the holly-tree.
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms,
But which will bloom most constantly?
The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again,
And who will call the wild-briar fair?
Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now,
And deck thee with the holly's sheen,
That, when December blights thy brow,
He still may leave thy garland green.
poem by Emily Brontë from Selections from the literary remains of Emily and Anne Brontë (1850)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Love and Friendship
Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree --
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most contantly?
The wild-rose briar is sweet in the spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who wil call the wild-briar fair?
Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holly's sheen,
That when December blights thy brow
He may still leave thy garland green.
poem by Emily Jane Brontë
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The Best Pipe
In vain you fervently extol,
In vain you puff, your cutty clay.
A twelvemonth smoked and black as coal,
'Tis redolent of rank decay
And bones of monks long passed away—
A fragrance I do not admire;
And so I hold my nose and say,
Give me a finely seasoned briar.
Macleod, whose judgment on the whole
Is faultless, has been led astray
To nurse a high-born meerschaum bowl,
For which he sweetly had to pay.
Ah, let him nurse it as he may,
Before the colour mounts much higher,
The grate shall be its fate one day.
Give me a finely seasoned briar.
The heathen Turk of Istamboul,
In oriental turban gay,
Delights his unbelieving soul
With hookahs, bubbling in a way
To fill a Christian with dismay
And wake the old Crusading fire.
May no such pipe be mine, I pray;
Give me a finely seasoned briar.
Clay, meerschaum, hookah, what are they
That I should view them with desire?
Both now, and when my hair is grey,
Give me a finely seasoned briar.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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What Real Friendship Is
Friendship sails 'cross all kinds of seas-
The calm, the stirred, the galed...
Serene, difficult and outright stormy...
But true friendship-it never fails;
You come together open-hearted-
With profound respect and devotion-
Tied together with a common thread-
That can sustain any waves of the ocean;
The mark of true friendship stands...
Even when ones skies turn grey-
It is not just partial to sunny fair weather...!
Or absolute attendence come what may! ;
For oft' times we get side tracked...
From our own personal tragedies or worse...
Leaving us sometimes absent but never forgetting...
Our true friends in lifes most gifted verse;
For true friendship is not picky-!
It doesn't correct, fault find or critisize...!
It is a blessing as sure as Gods love-
A most cherished gift in our lives;
May 24,2010
Love And Friendship
By Emily Bronte
Love is like the wild rose briar
Friendship like the holly tree
The holly is dark when the rose briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?
The wild rose-briar is sweet in the Spring
Its Summer blossoms scent the air
Yet wait till Winter comes again
And who will call the wild briar fair?
Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the hollys sheen
That when December blights thy brow
He may still leave thy garland green.
poem by Theodora Onken
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Breath Of The Briar
I
O briar-scents, on yon wet wing
Of warm South-west wind brushing by,
You mind me of the sweetest thing
That ever mingled frank and shy:
When she and I, by love enticed,
Beneath the orchard-apples met,
In equal halves a ripe one sliced,
And smelt the juices ere we ate.
II
That apple of the briar-scent,
Among our lost in Britain now,
Was green of rind, and redolent
Of sweetness as a milking cow.
The briar gives it back, well nigh
The damsel with her teeth on it;
Her twinkle between frank and shy,
My thirst to bite where she had bit.
poem by George Meredith
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Marjory
Spring Stornelli.
THE RIVULET.
OH clear smooth rivulet, creeping through our bridge
With backward waves that cling around the shore,
And is thy world beyond the dim blue ridge
More dear than this, or does it need thee more?
Oh lingering stream, upon thy ceaseless way
Glide to to-morrow; yet 'tis fair to-day:
Beyond the hills and haze to-morrows hide;
To-day is fair; glide lingering, ceaseless tide.
SPRING AND SUMMER.
And summer time is good; but at its heat
The fair poor blossoms wither for the fruit,
And song-birds go that made our valley sweet
With useless ecstasies, and the boughs are mute.
And I would keep the blossoms and the song,
And I would have it spring the whole year long:
And I would have my life a year-long spring
To never pass from hopes and blossoming.
THE PRIMROSE.
Dear welcome, sweet pale stars of hope and spring,
Young primroses, blithe with the April air;
My darlings, waiting for my gathering,
Sit in my bosom, nestle in my hair.
But, oh! the fairest laughs behind the brook,
I cannot have it, I can only look:
Oh happy primrose on the further beach,
One can but look on thee, one cannot reach.
LINNET AND LARK.
Oh buoyant linnet in the flakes of thorn,
Sing thy loud lay; for joy and song are one.
Oh skylark floating upwards into morn,
Pour out thy carolling music of the sun.
Sing, sing; be voices of the life-ful air,
Glad things that never knew the cage nor snare:
Be voices of the air, and fill the sky,
Glad things that have no heed of by-and-by.
Summer Stornelli.
THE BEES IN THE LIME.
[...] Read more
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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The Idols
An Ode
Luce intellettual, piena d' amore
Prelude
Lo, the spirit of a pulsing star within a stone
Born of earth, sprung from night!
Prisoned with the profound fires of the light
That lives like all the tongues of eloquence
Locked in a speech unknown!
The crystal, cold and hard as innocence,
Immures the flame; and yet as if it knew
Raptures or pangs it could not but betray,
As if the light could feel changes of blood and breath
And all--but--human quiverings of the sense,
Throbs of a sudden rose, a frosty blue,
Shoot thrilling in its ray,
Like the far longings of the intellect
Restless in clouding clay.
Who has confined the Light? Who has held it a slave,
Sold and bought, bought and sold?
Who has made of it a mystery to be doled,
Or trophy, to awe with legendary fire,
Where regal banners wave?
And still into the dark it sends Desire.
In the heart's darkness it sows cruelties.
The bright jewel becomes a beacon to the vile,
A lodestar to corruption, envy's own:
Soiled with blood, fought for, clutched at; this world's prize,
Captive Authority. Oh, the star is stone
To all that outward sight,
Yet still, like truth that none has ever used,
Lives lost in its own light.
Troubled I fly. O let me wander again at will
(Far from cries, far from these
Hard blindnesses and frozen certainties!)
Where life proceeds in vastness unaware
And stirs profound and still:
Where leafing thoughts at shy touch of the air
Tremble, and gleams come seeking to be mine,
Or dart, like suddenly remembered youth,
Like the ache of love, a light, lost, found, and lost again.
Surely in the dusk some messenger was there!
But, haunted in the heart, I thirst, I pine.--
Oh, how can truth be truth
Except I taste it close and sweet and sharp
As an apple to the tooth?
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Laurence Binyon
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A Rose-bud advises man…
I asked a rose-bud, ‘who gave you your beauty? ’
And it replied, ‘my mother’s sap gave me! ’
I asked again, ‘who gave your mother plant, its sap? ’
It said, ‘the soil and rain by roots, the sun through leaves! ’
I asked the rose-bud, ‘who gave the soil, sun and rain such abilities? ’
It replied, ‘the One who made all things, and you and me! ’
And now the rose-bud asked me, ‘But why do you ask such questions?
Are you not made beautiful too by the same One,
Who made me, the moon, sky, soil and sun?
And yet, like you, we cannot walk or run! ’
It continued, ‘we plants feel sad we cannot move like how you do! ’
‘We buds grow bigger by each dawn;
The Maker feels so happy when we’re born,
And smiles on seeing us each morn,
Turning ecstatic, when we blossom on,
The landscape to perfume and to adorn –
By morrow, most of us are almost gone! ’
I asked the rose-bud, ‘are the dew-drops then because you cry? ’
And it replied, ‘they are the tears of joy and sadness of God on high,
Who knows we are born to sooner die.’
But tell me man, such questions, you ask, ‘why? ’
The rose-bud went on:
‘God gave you man, woman, a long life-span;
And do many things, you surely can! ’
God made you far more beautiful!
Be satisfied and be dutiful;
God is our Master One, most wonderful!
Praise Him, thank Him for all His gifts to you, bountiful! ’
Copyright by Dr John Celes 2-2-2010
poem by John Celes
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Endymion: Book IV
Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse!
O first-born on the mountains! by the hues
Of heaven on the spiritual air begot:
Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot,
While yet our England was a wolfish den;
Before our forests heard the talk of men;
Before the first of Druids was a child;--
Long didst thou sit amid our regions wild
Rapt in a deep prophetic solitude.
There came an eastern voice of solemn mood:--
Yet wast thou patient. Then sang forth the Nine,
Apollo's garland:--yet didst thou divine
Such home-bred glory, that they cry'd in vain,
"Come hither, Sister of the Island!" Plain
Spake fair Ausonia; and once more she spake
A higher summons:--still didst thou betake
Thee to thy native hopes. O thou hast won
A full accomplishment! The thing is done,
Which undone, these our latter days had risen
On barren souls. Great Muse, thou know'st what prison
Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and frets
Our spirit's wings: despondency besets
Our pillows; and the fresh to-morrow morn
Seems to give forth its light in very scorn
Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives.
Long have I said, how happy he who shrives
To thee! But then I thought on poets gone,
And could not pray:--nor can I now--so on
I move to the end in lowliness of heart.----
"Ah, woe is me! that I should fondly part
From my dear native land! Ah, foolish maid!
Glad was the hour, when, with thee, myriads bade
Adieu to Ganges and their pleasant fields!
To one so friendless the clear freshet yields
A bitter coolness, the ripe grape is sour:
Yet I would have, great gods! but one short hour
Of native air--let me but die at home."
Endymion to heaven's airy dome
Was offering up a hecatomb of vows,
When these words reach'd him. Whereupon he bows
His head through thorny-green entanglement
Of underwood, and to the sound is bent,
Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn.
"Is no one near to help me? No fair dawn
Of life from charitable voice? No sweet saying
To set my dull and sadden'd spirit playing?
No hand to toy with mine? No lips so sweet
[...] Read more
poem by John Keats
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Nip It Quick
There is a big difference between,
Seeing a thing for what it is.
To comprehend its meaning and existence.
Than it is,
Trying to avoid it.
By crossing a street.
Climbing a tree.
Or running to escape from it,
By hopping a fence.
To look back to see that it has grown bigger.
Those who make attempts pretending,
What 'is' does not exist.
Eventually find that digging a hole,
To hide from the growing enormity it.
Suffer from consequences they can never repay.
It is always best to be proactive,
No matter who or what.
Becomes offended by the action.
And face those dilemmas when they arise.
Like being strict with a child,
Regardless of how cute that child may be.
The first time there is a sign of disobedience occurring,
Nip it in the bud quick.
Do not give up to quit.
If not.
The control to introduce a discipline when it is too late,
Is a fate one confronts that is inescapable.
When one is fed what is allowed to become an addiction.
And an attempt is made to stop it?
All hell breaks loose.
Nip it quick!
Or a price will be paid for it.
If not.
Prepare to give up everything that once had a value.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Mother and Daughter- Sonnet Sequence
I
Young laughters, and my music! Aye till now
The voice can reach no blending minors near;
'Tis the bird's trill because the spring is here
And spring means trilling on a blossomy bough;
'Tis the spring joy that has no why or how,
But sees the sun and hopes not nor can fear--
Spring is so sweet and spring seems all the year.
Dear voice, the first-come birds but trill as thou.
Oh music of my heart, be thus for long:
Too soon the spring bird learns the later song;
Too soon a sadder sweetness slays content
Too soon! There comes new light on onward day,
There comes new perfume o'er a rosier way:
Comes not again the young spring joy that went.
ROME, November 1881.
II
That she is beautiful is not delight,
As some think mothers joy, by pride of her,
To witness questing eyes caught prisoner
And hear her praised the livelong dancing night;
But the glad impulse that makes painters sight
Bids me note her and grow the happier;
And love that finds me as her worshipper
Reveals me each best loveliness aright.
Oh goddess head! Oh innocent brave eyes!
Oh curved and parted lips where smiles are rare
And sweetness ever! Oh smooth shadowy hair
Gathered around the silence of her brow!
Child, I'd needs love thy beauty stranger-wise:
And oh the beauty of it, being thou!
III
I watch the sweet grave face in timorous thought
Lest I should see it dawn to some unrest
And read that in her heart is youth's ill guest,
The querulous young sadness, born of nought,
That wearies of the strife it has not fought,
And finds the life it has not had unblest,
And asks it knows not what that should be best,
And till Love come has never what it sought.
But she is still. A full and crystal lake
So gives it skies their passage to its deeps
In an unruffled morn where no winds wake,
And, strong and fretless, 'stirs not, nor yet sleeps.
My darling smiles and 'tis for gladness' sake;
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poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Daphne
Musing on the fate of Daphne,
Many feelings urged my breast,
For the God so keen desiring,
And the Nymph so deep distrest.
Never flashed thro' sylvan valley
Visions so divinely fair!
He with early ardour glowing,
She with rosy anguish rare.
Only still more sweet and lovely
For those terrors on her brows,
Those swift glances wild and brilliant,
Those delicious panting vows.
Timidly the timid shoulders
Shrinking from the fervid hand!
Dark the tide of hair back-flowing
From the blue-veined temples bland!
Lovely, too, divine Apollo
In the speed of his pursuit;
With his eye an azure lustre,
And his voice a summer lute!
Looking like some burnished eagle
Hovering o'er a fluttered bird;
Not unseen of silver Naiad,
And of wistful Dryad heard!
Many a morn the naked beauty
Saw her bright reflection drown
In the flowing smooth-faced river,
While the god came sheening down.
Down from Pindus bright Peneus
Tells its muse-melodious source;
Sacred is its fountained birthplace,
And the Orient floods its course.
Many a morn the sunny darling
Saw the rising chariot-rays,
From the winding river-reaches,
Mellowing in amber haze.
Thro' the flaming mountain gorges
Lo, the River leaps the plain;
Like a wild god-stridden courser,
Tossing high its foamy mane.
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poem by George Meredith
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