Quotes about hill, page 14
OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII (Entire)
Strong Son of God, immortal Love,
Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
Believing where we cannot prove;
Thine are these orbs of light and shade;
Thou madest Life in man and brute;
Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot
Is on the skull which thou hast made.
Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:
Thou madest man, he knows not why,
He thinks he was not made to die;
And thou hast made him: thou art just.
Thou seemest human and divine,
The highest, holiest manhood, thou:
Our wills are ours, we know not how;
Our wills are ours, to make them thine.
Our little systems have their day;
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poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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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,
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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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The Flashing Light
The flashing light up on the hill...
I wink, and it winks back.
The flashing light up on the hill...
its consistency annoys me.
The flashing light up on the hill...
perhaps its trying to tell me something?
The flashing light up on the hill...
it will still be there when I'm gone.
poem by Eila Mahima Jaipaul
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Dream comes true!
The hills are the status,
to the rich and powerful,
so I wanted to live on a hill,
with spacious garden and guard dogs.
If I stay on a hill,
I can touch the clouds,
be closer to moon and stars.
I wanted to stay on a hill.
The hills always belong to people,
who possess the hard cash and metal,
so I am put in an apartment,
that is built as high as a hill.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Song II. The Landscape
How pleased within my native bowers
Erewhile I pass'd the day!
Was ever scene so deck'd with flowers?
Were ever flowers so gay?
How sweetly smiled the hill, the vale,
And all the landscape round!
The river gliding down the dale,
The hill with beeches crown'd!
But now, when urged by tender woes,
I speed to meet my dear,
That hill and stream my zeal oppose,
And check my fond career.
No more, since Daphne was my theme,
Their wonted charms I see;
That verdant hill and silver stream,
Divide my love and me.
poem by William Shenstone
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The Landskip
How pleas'd within my native bowers
Erewhile I pass'd the day!
Was ever scene so deck'd with flowers?
Were ever flowers so gay?
How sweetly smil'd the hill, the vale,
And all the landskip round!
The river gliding down the dale!
The hill with beeches crown'd!
But now, when urg'd by tender woes,
I speed to meet my dear,
That hill and stream my zeal oppose,
And check my fond career.
No more, since Daphne was my theme,
Their wonted charms I see:
That verdant hill, and silver stream,
Divide my love and me.
poem by William Shenstone
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The Little Hill
Oh, here the air is sweet and still,
And soft's the grass to lie on;
And far away's the little hill
They took for Christ to die on.
And there's a hill across the brook,
And down the brook's another;
But, oh, the little hill they took,—
I think I am its mother!
The moon that saw Gethsemane,
I watch it rise and set:
It has so many things to see,
They help it to forget.
But little hills that sit at home
So many hundred years,
Remember Greece, remember Rome,
Remember Mary's tears.
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poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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The Dark Hill
On dark hill, in moonlight
A lone stranger struggles through the night
With hopes dashed and dreams torn asunder
Though dark flowers he slowly wanders
And looks around trying to find
A little space and piece of mind.
But the dark hill is unforgiving
And no escape or hope its giving
The dark flowers turn and scream
To remind him that its just a dream
Lost inside a world of pain
One day hoping to be whole again
The darkness is always in your own mind
Never ending and making you blind
The dark hill takes and leaves nothing behind
Nothing but the emptiness of your own desire.
So on the dark hill the man continues
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poem by Monkee Thompson
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Diabolist
Me alone and God
climbing this hill
called life:
My deepest thoughts
I cannot share
even with my dearest friends.
When I pour my heart out,
when I sing the blues,
their cloven lips
clap, claptrap
on the evening news.
Me alone and God
climbing this hill
called life:
In the solid core of my mind,
I realize,
Satan can accomplish
nothing without acquiescence.
For all his evil deeds
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poem by Buxton Shippy
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