I'll Miss His Good Sense
It was a somber hour
Of my existence
When Andy Rooney quit
I’ll miss his good sense
poem by Edwin Tanguma
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
This Friendly World
R.E.M., Andy, Tony---This Friendly World
ANDY: Hi, Michael.
MICHAEL: Hi, Andy. Thanks for joining us. Do you
wanna ... you wanna sing a song together?
ANDY: Sure! Is it a sweet song?
MICHAEL: Yeah, it's real sweet.
ANDY: O.K.!
[They laugh.]
MICHAEL:
In this friendly, friendly world
With each day so full of joy
Why should any heart be lonely?
ANDY: My turn!
In this friendly, friendly world
With each night so full of dreams
Why should any heart be afraid?
The world is ...
MICHAEL ANDY:
... such a wonderful place
To wander through
When you've got someone you love
MICHAEL:
To wander along with you
ANDY: O.K., now take every second word! With ...
MICHAEL: ... the ...
ANDY: ... sky ...
MICHAEL: ... so ...
ANDY: ... full ...
MICHAEL: ... of ...
ANDY: ... stars
MICHAEL: And ...
ANDY: ... the ...
MICHAEL: ... river ...
ANDY: ... so ...
MICHAEL: ... full ...
ANDY: ... of ...
MICHAEL: ... song, Every ...
ANDY: ... heart ...
MICHAEL: ... should ...
ANDY: ... be ...
MICHAEL: ... so ...
ANDY: ... thankful
It's a friendly world! Don't you think so, Michael?
MICHAEL: Yup!
TONY: Oh yeah?! What's so friendly about it?!!
This is Tony Clifton, and, and I demand a part in
this song! I'm just as big a part of the movie as
these guys are! And, and I will not sit back while
some sought-after Colonel Kurtz wanna-be, uh, uh
has his day in the sun! I think he's enough
[...] Read more
song performed by REM
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Healthy Back Bag
animated bag of chips
amor dive bag
american eagle outfitters bags
ambag poly bags wholesale
american airlines bag limits
american beauty plastic bag theme mp3
amf bowling bag
aluminum tab weave bag
ampac tote bags
american trails atv bag
american tourister bonneville ii garment bag
alt ieri bassoon bag
almond flavored tea bags
ameribag shoulder bags
a mco saddel bags 1977
an enema bag for men
amulet bag book
analyse art falconers bag
amy butler sweet life bag
alto sax bag
alpha kappa alpha diva tote bag
amylou bag in eureka ca
ani hand bags
american west rodeo bags
amex insurance for delayed bags
an interchangeable foundation bag
al verio martini bags
animal bag mp3
american trail ventures atv cargo bags
aluminium coated plastic bags
amy butlet runaway bag pattern
angel bag
animae bop bag
allowed to carry on garment bag
a nimal bag print tote
an imal overnight bag
aloksak bags
amz bag fun src
ameribag microfiber bag
american tourister laptop bag
allied waste service blue bags
american indian medicine bags
alternative to plastic trash bags
amish buggy bag
alpha poly bag
ammo shoulder bag
american sign language tote bags
animated gif people with hand bags
amazing bag grace pipe
altieri bags
[...] Read more
poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Believer's Principles : Chap. IV.
Faith and Sense Natural, compared and distinguished.
When Abram's body, Sarah's womb,
Were ripe for nothing but the tomb,
Exceeding old, and wholly dead,
Unlike to bear the promis'd seed:
Faith said, 'I shall an Isaac see;'
'No, no,' said Sense, 'it cannot be;'
Blind Reason, to augment the strife,
Adds, 'How can death engender life?'
My heart is like a rotten tomb,
More dead than ever Sarah's womb;
O! can the promis'd seed of grace
Spring forth from such a barren place?
Sense gazing but on flinty rocks,
My hope and expectation chokes:
But could I, skill'd in Abram's art,
O'erlook my dead and barren heart;
And build my hope on nothing less
That divine pow'r and faithfulness;
Soon would I find him raise up sons
To Abram, out of rocks and stones.
Faith acts as busy boatmen do,
Who backward look and forward row;
It looks intent to things unseen,
Thinks objects visible too mean.
Sense thinks it madness thus to steer,
And only trusts its eye and ear;
Into faith's boat dare thrust its oar,
And put it further from the shore.
Faith does alone the promise eye;
Sense won't believe unless it see;
Nor can it trust the divine guide,
Unless it have both wind and tide.
Faith thinks the promise sure and good;
Sense doth depend on likelihood;
Faith ev'n in storms believes the seers;
Sense calls all men, ev'n prophets, liars.
Faith uses means, but rests on none;
Sense sails when outward means are gone:
[...] Read more
poem by Ralph Erskine
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
On A Path Of Least Resistance
I'm on a path of least resistance.
And its existence.
On a path of least resistance.
I'm on a path of least resistance,
And its existence.
On a path of least resistance.
Pain,
And its existence.
Felt,
And its existence.
Hurts,
In this existence...
And I need to get away.
Pain,
And its existence.
Felt,
And its existence.
Hurts,
In this existence...
And I need to get away.
I'm on a path of least resistance.
And its existence.
On a path of least resistance,
And I need to get away.
I'm on a path of least resistance.
And its existence.
On a path of least resistance,
And I need to get away.
Oh!
Pain,
And its existence.
Oh.
Felt,
And its existence.
Oh.
Hurts,
In this existence...
And I need to get away.
Oh pain,
And its existence.
Oh.
Felt,
And its existence.
Oh.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Andy Warhol
(this is andy warhole and its take one, take one)
Its, its warhol actually
(what did I say)
Whole, its whole as in wholes
(andy warhol)
Wah, andy war hol, andy war hol (he)
Like whole hub
He
Ha
Are you ready
(yeah)
Ha ha ha ha ha ha
Like to take a cement fix
Be a standing cinema
Dress my friends up just for show
See them as they really are
Put a peephole in my brain
Two new pence to have a go
Id like to be a gallery
Put you all inside my show
Andy warhol looks a scream
Hang him on my wall
Andy warhol, silver screen
Cant tell them apart at all
Andy walking, andy tired
Andy take a little snooze
Tie him up when hes fast asleep
Send him on a pleasant cruise (hm hm hm)
When he wakes up on the sea
He sure to think of me and you
Hell think about paint and hell think about glue
What a jolly boring thing to do
Andy warhol looks a scream
Hang him on my wall
Andy warhol, silver screen
Cant tell them apart at all
Andy warhol looks a scream
Hang him on my wall
Andy warhol, silver screen
Cant tell them apart at all
(handclaps)
song performed by David Bowie
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Killing Andy Warhol
Did you ever see the sun rise up
Above this blackened hole
Did you ever feel that what you wants
Not under your control
Ever think that how you feel
Is not quite what you are
Some of us are satellites
Some are superstars
Theyre killing andy warhol
Hes a saint and hes a thief
Well all die a million times
Thats what I believe
Killing andy warhol
Killing andy warhol
They say the rain in europe
Cools you down and helps you think
Water, water everywhere
Nothing you can drink
Kissing andy warhol
His skin feels like a shark
White hair sits so beautiful
Eyelids are so dark
And Im trying to get ahead
Like any boy or girl
Thered be no dictators anywhere
If I could rule the world
Killing andy warhol
Killing andy warhol
Thats impossible - he got all that money
Adorable - having all that money
Feasable - that its all black money
Its so criminal - making all that money
All I want, is what Id want
But I dont want that now
Theyre dressing andy warhol up
If only thay knew how
Jesus on the neon sign
Turns and starts to laugh
And Im thinking about this oxygen
And how Ill make it last
Killing andy warhol
Hes a saint - yeah hes a thief
Motorways are everywhere
With no clean air to breathe
Killing andy warhol
Killing andy warhol
Till the end of time
Till the end of time
Having all that money
Killing andy warhol
[...] Read more
song performed by Simple Minds
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Andy McElroe
My brother Andy said, that for a soldier he would go,
So great excitement came upon the house of McElroe.
My father sold a bog-hole to equip him for the war.
And my mother sold the cushions of her Sunday jaunting car.
And when brave Andy reach'd the front, 'twas furious
work he made,
They appointed him a private in the Crocodile Brigade.
The sound of Andy's battle cry struck terror thro' the foe.
His foot was on the desert and his name was McElroe.
At least that's what the letter said that came across the foam.
To Andy's anxious relatives awaiting him at home.
The papers say he ran away before he met the foe.
But that was quite unlike the style of Andy McElroe.
One morning brave Lord Wolseley for a battle felt inclined;
But all could see the general had something on his mind;
Sez he, 'My staff, 'twere dangerous to face yon deadly foe,
Unless we're sure that quite prepared is Andy McElroe.'
Then Andy cried, 'I'm here, my lord, and ready for the fray,'
'Advance then,' cried Lord Wolseley, 'and let every trumpet bray.'
Then England, Ireland, Scotland, rolled together on the foe,
But far ahead of everyone rushed Andy McElroe.
At least, that's what the letter said that came across the foam
To Andy's anxious relatives, awaiting him at home.
The government despatches had another tale- but no!
We won't believe a word against brave Andy McElroe.
The Mahdi had gone up a tree, a spyglass in his eye,
To see his Paynim chivalry the northern prowess try;
But soon he saw a form of dread, and cried in tones of woe,
'Be jabers let me out of this - there's Andy McElroe.'
Then down he hurried from his tree, and straight away he ran,
To keep appointments, as he said, in distant Kordofan,
And fled those Arab soldiery like sand siroccos blow,
Pursued (with much profanity) by Andy McElroe.
At least, that's what he told us when returning o'er the foam
To greet his anxious relatives, awaiting him at home.
So sing the song of triumph, and let all your bumpers flow,
In honour of our countryman, brave Andrew McElroe.
poem by William Percy French
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Andy Veto
Andy Veto never slept a wink last night;
Darkeys, he's your Moses!
Andy had to take us extra drink last night;
Darkeys, he's your Moses!
There was one who led you thro' the sea, you know,
He who paid his life, and left you free, you know;
But Andy V. receipts the bill, so he, you know--
Why, darkeys, he's your Moses!
Come! Come! Joshua, come!
Don't you think it's time the journey closes?
For you kwow we'll never stand in the promised land
While Andy Veto's our Moses.
Moses can't afford to let his people vote;
Darkey's, he's your Moses!
He must watch his little flock, his own scapegoat,
For, darkeys he's your Moses!
Thinking of you brings him wakeful nights, you know;
You might up and take your "civil rights," you know,
And make a "war of roses" with the whites, you know;
So, darkeys, he's your Moses!
Andy Veto thought he wore a crown last night;
Darkeys, he's your Moses!
When the people spoke, it tumbled down last night;
But, darkeys, he's your Moses!
Were it not a pretty sight--methinks I see
Thirty million loyal people, proud and free,
Around the throne of Andy Veto bend the knee;
Oh, darkeys, he's your Moses!
Andy Veto been a fishing for "another term;"
Darkeys, he's your Moses!
Guess that when vacation comes we'll change the firm,
If, darkeys, he's your Moses!
Ev'ry-thing is going wrong while Andy leads;
We must change the diet on which Andy feeds;
Ah! "reconstruction," that is just what Andy needs;
And, darkeys, he's your Moses!
poem by Henry Clay Work
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Ballad Of Casey's Billy-Goat
You've heard of "Casey at The Bat,"
And "Casey's Tabble Dote";
But now it's time
To write a rhyme
Of "Casey's Billy-goat."
Pat Casey had a billy-goat he gave the name of Shamus,
Because it was (the neighbours said) a national disgrace.
And sure enough that animal was eminently famous
For masticating every rag of laundry round the place.
For shirts to skirts prodigiously it proved its powers of chewing;
The question of digestion seemed to matter not at all;
But you'll agree, I think with me, its limit of misdoing
Was reached the day it swallowed Missis Rooney's ould red shawl.
Now Missis Annie Rooney was a winsome widow women,
And many a bouncing boy had sought to make her change her name;
And living just across the way 'twas surely only human
A lonesome man like Casey should be wishfully the same.
So every Sunday, shaved and shined, he'd make the fine occasion
To call upon the lady, and she'd take his and coat;
And supping tea it seemed that she might yield to his persuasion,
But alas! he hadn't counted on that devastating goat.
For Shamus loved his master with a deep and dumb devotion,
And everywhere that Casey went that goat would want to go;
And though I cannot analyze a quadruped's emotion,
They said the baste was jealous, and I reckon it was so.
For every time that Casey went to call on Missis Rooney,
Beside the gate the goat would wait with woefulness intense;
Until one day it chanced that they were fast becoming spooney,
When Shamus spied that ould red shawl a-flutter on the fence.
Now Missis Rooney loved that shawl beyond all rhyme or reason,
And maybe 'twas an heirloom or a cherished souvenir;
For judging by the way she wore it season after season,
I might have been as precious as a product of Cashmere.
So Shamus strolled towards it, and no doubt the colour pleased him,
For he biffed it and he sniffed it, as most any goat might do;
Then his melancholy vanished as a sense of hunger seized him,
And he wagged his tail with rapture as he started in to chew.
"Begorrah! you're a daisy," said the doting Mister Casey
to the blushing Widow Rooney as they parted at the door.
"Wid yer tinderness an' tazin' sure ye've set me heart a-blazin',
And I dread the day I'll nivver see me Anniw anny more."
"Go on now wid yer blarney," said the widow softly sighing;
And she went to pull his whiskers, when dismay her bosom smote. . . .
Her ould red shawl! 'Twas missin' where she'd left it bravely drying -
Then she saw it disappearing - down the neck of Casey's goat.
[...] Read more
poem by Robert William Service
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The mother and the artist
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of wonderfully emollient freshness; every
unfurling instant of impregnably magnificent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of spellbindingly undefeated innocence; every
unfurling instant of symbiotically pristine existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of timelessly unconquerable truth; every unfurling
instant of bounteously magnanimous existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unfathomably unfettered creativity; every
unfurling instant of timelessly burgeoning existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of royally triumphant resplendence; every
unfurling instant of unconquerably majestic existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of eternally exhilarating vivaciousness; every
unfurling instant of redolently insuperable existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unbelievably ameliorating optimism; every
unfurling instant of marvelously benign existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of brilliantly liberated camaraderie; every
unfurling instant of iridescently inscrutable existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unshakably virgin righteousness; every
unfurling instant of beautifully untainted existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of uninhibitedly heavenly frolic; every unfurling
instant of tantalizingly sensuous existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of compassionately humanitarian friendship; every
unfurling instant of magically mitigating existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of miraculously everlasting freshness; every
unfurling instant of invincibly coalescing existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of pricelessly ubiquitous oneness; every unfurling
[...] Read more
poem by Nikhil Parekh
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi
Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Ghost - Book IV
Coxcombs, who vainly make pretence
To something of exalted sense
'Bove other men, and, gravely wise,
Affect those pleasures to despise,
Which, merely to the eye confined,
Bring no improvement to the mind,
Rail at all pomp; they would not go
For millions to a puppet-show,
Nor can forgive the mighty crime
Of countenancing pantomime;
No, not at Covent Garden, where,
Without a head for play or player,
Or, could a head be found most fit,
Without one player to second it,
They must, obeying Folly's call,
Thrive by mere show, or not at all
With these grave fops, who, (bless their brains!)
Most cruel to themselves, take pains
For wretchedness, and would be thought
Much wiser than a wise man ought,
For his own happiness, to be;
Who what they hear, and what they see,
And what they smell, and taste, and feel,
Distrust, till Reason sets her seal,
And, by long trains of consequences
Insured, gives sanction to the senses;
Who would not (Heaven forbid it!) waste
One hour in what the world calls Taste,
Nor fondly deign to laugh or cry,
Unless they know some reason why;
With these grave fops, whose system seems
To give up certainty for dreams,
The eye of man is understood
As for no other purpose good
Than as a door, through which, of course,
Their passage crowding, objects force,
A downright usher, to admit
New-comers to the court of Wit:
(Good Gravity! forbear thy spleen;
When I say Wit, I Wisdom mean)
Where (such the practice of the court,
Which legal precedents support)
Not one idea is allow'd
To pass unquestion'd in the crowd,
But ere it can obtain the grace
Of holding in the brain a place,
Before the chief in congregation
Must stand a strict examination.
Not such as those, who physic twirl,
Full fraught with death, from every curl;
[...] Read more
poem by Charles Churchill
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society
Epigraph
Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.
I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.
You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Father Riley's Horse
'Twas the horse thief, Andy Regan, that was hunted like a dog
By the troopers of the upper Murray side,
They had searched in every gully -- they had looked in every log,
But never sight or track of him they spied,
Till the priest at Kiley's Crossing heard a knocking very late
And a whisper "Father Riley -- come across!"
So his Rev'rence in pyjamas trotted softly to the gate
And admitted Andy Regan -- and a horse!
"Now, it's listen, Father Riley, to the words I've got to say,
For it's close upon my death I am tonight.
With the troopers hard behind me I've been hiding all the day
In the gullies keeping close and out of sight.
But they're watching all the ranges till there's not a bird could fly,
And I'm fairly worn to pieces with the strife,
So I'm taking no more trouble, but I'm going home to die,
'Tis the only way I see to save my life.
"Yes, I'm making home to mother's, and I'll die o' Tuesday next
An' be buried on the Thursday -- and, of course,
I'm prepared to meet my penance, but with one thing I'm perplexed
And it's -- Father, it's this jewel of a horse!
He was never bought nor paid for, and there's not a man can swear
To his owner or his breeder, but I know,
That his sire was by Pedantic from the Old Pretender mare
And his dam was close related to The Roe.
"And there's nothing in the district that can race him for a step,
He could canter while they're going at their top:
He's the king of all the leppers that was ever seen to lep,
A five-foot fence -- he'd clear it in a hop!
So I'll leave him with you, Father, till the dead shall rise again,
Tis yourself that knows a good 'un; and, of course,
You can say he's got by Moonlight out of Paddy Murphy's plain
If you're ever asked the breeding of the horse!
"But it's getting on to daylight and it's time to say goodbye,
For the stars above the east are growing pale.
And I'm making home to mother -- and it's hard for me to die!
But it's harder still, is keeping out of gaol!
You can ride the old horse over to my grave across the dip
Where the wattle bloom is waving overhead.
Sure he'll jump them fences easy -- you must never raise the whip
Or he'll rush 'em! -- now, goodbye!" and he had fled!
So they buried Andy Regan, and they buried him to rights,
In the graveyard at the back of Kiley's Hill;
There were five-and-twenty mourners who had five-and-twenty fights
Till the very boldest fighters had their fill.
There were fifty horses racing from the graveyard to the pub,
And their riders flogged each other all the while.
[...] Read more
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Dream
'TWAS summer eve; the changeful beams still play'd
On the fir-bark and through the beechen shade;
Still with soft crimson glow'd each floating cloud;
Still the stream glitter'd where the willow bow'd;
Still the pale moon sate silent and alone,
Nor yet the stars had rallied round her throne;
Those diamond courtiers, who, while yet the West
Wears the red shield above his dying breast,
Dare not assume the loss they all desire,
Nor pay their homage to the fainter fire,
But wait in trembling till the Sun's fair light
Fading, shall leave them free to welcome Night!
So when some Chief, whose name through realms afar
Was still the watchword of succesful war,
Met by the fatal hour which waits for all,
Is, on the field he rallied, forced to fall,
The conquerors pause to watch his parting breath,
Awed by the terrors of that mighty death;
Nor dare the meed of victory to claim,
Nor lift the standard to a meaner name,
Till every spark of soul hath ebb'd away,
And leaves what was a hero, common clay.
Oh! Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth
To dim enchantments; melting Heaven with Earth,
Leaving on craggy hills and rumning streams
A softness like the atmosphere of dreams;
Thy hour to all is welcome! Faint and sweet
Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet,
Who, slow returning from his task of toil,
Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil,
And, tho' such radliance round him brightly glows,
Marks the small spark his cottage window throws.
Still as his heart forestals his weary pace,
Fondly he dreams of each familiar face,
Recalls the treasures of his narrow life,
His rosy children, and his sunburnt wife,
To whom his coming is the chief event
Of simple days in cheerful labour spent.
The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past,
And those poor cottagers have only cast
One careless glance on all that show of pride,
Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside;
But him they wait for, him they welcome home,
Fond sentinels look forth to see him come;
The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim,
The frugal meal prepared, are all for him;
For him the watching of that sturdy boy,
[...] Read more
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
I Quit
i quit trying to save the world...
and just offered my hand,
and walked beside it.
i quit trying to find the truth,
for it was already within me.
i quit trying to tell anyone anything,
and just listened in perfect stillness.
i quit trying to be religious,
and found the sacred in the common.
i quit trying to stop the wars,
and let the wars within me end!
i quit trying to find god,
and just looked in the mirror.
i quit fighting for freedom,
and found a freedom they couldnt take.
i quit shouting out for justice,
and walked in a way that was just.
i quit wanting to own anything,
and so broke the final bonds.
i quit trying to be what they wanted,
and decided to be myself.
i quit blaming, condemning, and accusing,
and took the responsibility on myself.
i quit trying to make myself a name,
and walked in nobody's shoes.
i quit staring from behind the bars,
that were never really there.
i quit seeking to define and hold,
and just let go and lived.
i quit hiding from death, and opened the door,
and found the light from which darkness
is made!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
The Loves of the Angels
'Twas when the world was in its prime,
When the fresh stars had just begun
Their race of glory and young Time
Told his first birth-days by the sun;
When in the light of Nature's dawn
Rejoicing, men and angels met
On the high hill and sunny lawn,-
Ere sorrow came or Sin had drawn
'Twixt man and heaven her curtain yet!
When earth lay nearer to the skies
Than in these days of crime and woe,
And mortals saw without surprise
In the mid-air angelic eyes
Gazing upon this world below.
Alas! that Passion should profane
Even then the morning of the earth!
That, sadder still, the fatal stain
Should fall on hearts of heavenly birth-
And that from Woman's love should fall
So dark a stain, most sad of all!
One evening, in that primal hour,
On a hill's side where hung the ray
Of sunset brightening rill and bower,
Three noble youths conversing lay;
And, as they lookt from time to time
To the far sky where Daylight furled
His radiant wing, their brows sublime
Bespoke them of that distant world-
Spirits who once in brotherhood
Of faith and bliss near ALLA stood,
And o'er whose cheeks full oft had blown
The wind that breathes from ALLA'S throne,
Creatures of light such as still play,
Like motes in sunshine, round the Lord,
And thro' their infinite array
Transmit each moment, night and day,
The echo of His luminous word!
Of Heaven they spoke and, still more oft,
Of the bright eyes that charmed them thence;
Till yielding gradual to the soft
And balmy evening's influence-
The silent breathing of the flowers-
The melting light that beamed above,
As on their first, fond, erring hours,-
Each told the story of his love,
The history of that hour unblest,
When like a bird from its high nest
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Moore
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
XI. Guido
You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Man On The Moon
Mott the hoople and the game of life. yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Andy kaufman in the wrestling match. yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Monopoly, twenty one, checkers, and chess. yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Mister fred blassie in a breakfast mess. yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Lets play twister, lets play risk. yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
See you heaven if you make the list. yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Hey, andy did you hear about this one? tell me, are you locked in the punch?
Hey andy are you goofing on elvis? hey, baby. are we losing touch?
If you believed they put a man on the moon, man on the moon.
If you believe theres nothing up my sleeve, then nothing is cool.
Moses went walking with the staff of wood. yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Newton got beaned by the apple good. yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Egypt was troubled by the horrible asp. yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Mister charles darwin had the gall to ask. yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Hey andy did you hear about this one? tell me, are you locked in the punch?
Hey, andy are you goofing on elvis? hey, baby. are you having fun?
If you believed they put a man on the moon, man on the moon.
If you believe theres nothing up my sleeve, then nothing is cool.
Heres a little agit for the never-believer. yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Heres a little ghost for the offering. yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Heres a truck stop instead of saint peters. yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Mister andy kaufmans gone wrestling [wrestling bears]. yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Hey andy did you hear about this one? tell me, are you locked in the punch?
Hey andy are you goofing on elvis, hey baby, are we losing touch?
If you believed they put a man on the moon, man on the moon.
If you believe theres nothing up my sleeve, then nothing is cool.
song performed by REM
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Man In The Moon
Mott the Hoople and the game of Life. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Andy Kaufman in the wrestling match. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Monopoly, Twenty one, checkers, and chess. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Mister Fred Blassie in a breakfast mess. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Let's play Twister, let's play Risk. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
See you in heaven if you make the list. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Now, Andy did you hear about this one? Tell me, are you locked in the punch?
Andy are you goofing on Elvis? Hey, baby. Are we losing touch?
If you believed they put a man on the moon, man on the moon.
If you believe there's nothing up his sleeve, then nothing is cool.
Moses went walking with the staff of wood. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Newton got beaned by the apple good. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Egypt was troubled by the horrible asp. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Mister Charles Darwin had the gall to ask. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Now Andy did you hear about this one? Tell me, are you locked in the punch?
Andy are you goofing on Elvis? Hey, baby. Are you having fun?
If you believed they put a man on the moon, man on the moon.
If you believe there's nothing up his sleeve, then nothing is cool.
Here's a little agit for the never-believer. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Here's a little ghost for the offering. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Here's a truck stop instead of Saint Peter's. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Mister Andy Kaufman's gone wrestling [wrestling bears]. Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Now Andy did you hear about this one? Tell me, are you locked in the punch?
Andy are you goofing on Elvis, hey baby, are we losing touch?
If you believed they put a man on the moon, man on the moon.
If you believe there's nothing up his sleeve, then nothing is cool
song performed by REM
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!