Quotes about growl, page 16
The Cities Of The Plain
'Get ye up from the wrath of God's terrible day!
Ungirded, unsandalled, arise and away!
'T is the vintage of blood, 't is the fulness of time,
And vengeance shall gather the harvest of crime!'
The warning was spoken--the righteous had gone,
And the proud ones of Sodom were feasting alone;
All gay was the banquet--the revel was long,
With the pouring of wine and the breathing of song.
'T was an evening of beauty; the air was perfume,
The earth was all greenness, the trees were all bloom;
And softly the delicate viol was heard,
Like the murmur of love or the notes of a bird.
And beautiful maidens moved down in the dance,
With the magic of motion and sunshine of glance
And white arms wreathed lightly, and tresses fell free
As the plumage of birds in some tropical tree.
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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Carousels Before The War
In the silence of the station and its insatiable yearning
To be filled with tourists and passengers
And bludgeon obliviously to the familiar feeling
Roused by scent and warmth of their far-flung home,
Another tourist loitered juxtaposed the ticket booth
Careening over the burning rails of nostalgia
Because the calendar pages holds a succinct
Concern for the macabre in inertia
Her coruscating soul was plummeting from her lips
Waiting for the sleeping train to stir and growl
This tourist stared at me unwaveringly
With the tackling of her foreign eyes, rolled the dice
Like a steely glacial wheel chafing with the rails
And I could have feigned a fuming act
But I knew very well who this tourist was
She lives in my sala, behind the crumbling wallpapers
I stared back into the voids of oblivion
And in her skyscraping eyes, I saw thoroughly
The war before the sunrise slithering
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poem by Norman Santos
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Fight of A Buffalo with Wolves
We were so deeply impressed with the courage displayed by a buffalo
in a prose tale that we transposed the description into verse.
A buffalo, lord of the plain,
With massive neck and mighty mane,
While from his herd he slowly strays,
He on green herbage calm doth graze ;
And when at last he lifts his eyes,
A savage wolf he soon espies ;
But scarcely deigns to turn his head,
For it inspires him with no dread.
He knows the wolf is treacherous foe,
But feels he soon could lay him low.
A moment more, and there's a pair,
Whose savage eyes do on him glare ;
But with contempt them both he scorns,
Unworthy of his powerful horns.
Their numbers soon do multiply,
But the whole pack he doth defy ;
He could bound quickly o'er the plain,
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poem by James McIntyre
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The Bogeyman
When I was a child, the Bogeyman
Lived in our water tank,
He'd grumble and rumble and growl all night,
I had my sister to thank,
She told me about his giant claws
And the great big teeth he had,
If I couldn't get to the foot of the stairs
He'd be hot on my heels - How sad!
The tank sat next to the toilet seat
In a cupboard, close to a hatch,
It used to spring open and freak me out,
There was something wrong with the catch,
I'd pull on the rusted, clanking chain
And head for the landing, stairs,
If the water had stopped, before I dropped
The Bogeyman would be there!
He was only a second behind me then,
A second of terrors and fears,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. The Musician's Tale; The Saga of King Olaf XIX. -- King Olaf's War-Horns
'Strike the sails!' King Olaf said;
'Never shall men of mine take flight;
Never away from battle I fled,
Never away from my foes!
Let God dispose
Of my life in the fight!'
'Sound the horns!' said Olaf the King;
And suddenly through the drifting brume
The blare of the horns began to ring,
Like the terrible trumpet shock
Of Regnarock,
On the Day of Doom!
Louder and louder the war-horns sang
Over the level floor of the flood;
All the sails came down with a clang,
And there in the mist overhead
The sun hung red
As a drop of blood.
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Fate Of An Innocent Dog
When Tiger left his native yard,
He did not many ills regard,
A fleet and harmless cur;
Indeed, he was a trusty dog,
And did not through the pastures prog;
The grazing flocks to stir, poor dog,
The grazing flocks to stir.
He through a field by chance was led,
In quest of game not far ahead,
And made one active leap;
When all at once, alarm'd, he spied,
A creature welt'ring on its side,
A deadly wounded sheep, alas!
A deadly wounded sheep.
He there was fill'd with sudden fear,
Apprized of lurking danger near,
And there he left his trail;
Indeed, he was afraid to yelp,
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poem by George Moses Horton
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Mexican Sunrise
I was watching the sunrise
In Mexico when my horse died beneath me.
I was in Diez Coronas,
On the edge of a cliff,
With only my horse for company.
Stars were scattered across the
Palette of the sky,
Colored silver on indigo.
Past the edge of the cliff
Lay nothing but sandstone and a
Hundred feet of empty air.
My horse whickered and
Pawed the ground impatiently.
I could feel his muscles bulge and relax,
Eager to get on with our journey.
As the sky started to lighten,
I checked my pocket-watch:
Twenty-seven minutes past five.
Just a few more minutes.
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poem by Alex Garr
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The Squatter’s Daughter
OUT in the west, where runs are wide,
And days than ours are hotter,
Not very far from Lachlan Side
There dwelt a wealthy squatter.
Of old opinions he was full—
An Englishman, his sire,
Was hated long where peasants pull
Their forelocks to the squire.
He loved the good old British laws,
And Royalty’s regalia,
And oft was heard to growl because
They wouldn’t fit Australia.
This squatter had a lovely child—
An angel bright we thought her;
And all the stockmen rude and wild
Adored the squatter’s daughter.
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poem by Henry Lawson
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No My Friends No!
Hail foes to oppression, and lovers of freedom!
Your day has arrived, and your power you know:-
This host of timeservers, I'm sure we don't need them,
And we'll never support them! O! no, my friends, no!
Their dodges and shuffles, their threats and persuasions,
Their schemes and devices so petty and low,
Has made us determine on all such occasions,
That we'll never support them; O! no, my friends, no!
The victory they've lost, after all their endeavours,
To prop up their system, though now 'tis laid low:-
We were not to be Gallied ^, young Portland for ever!
We would not surrender! O! no, my friends, no!
They may try all they can with their creatures and flunkeys:-
We'll shout in derision at them as we go:-
We care not for N.T. * nor his poor abject monkeys;
And will not support them; O! no, my friends, no!
Success to our Guardian, our rights he's protected;
While his ex Reverence Sandy $ has never done so;
Being the tool of his Party, our claims he's rejected;
And shall we support him? O! no, my friends, no!
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poem by William Gay
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When The Duke of Clarence Died
Let us sing in tear-choked numbers how the Duke of Clarence went,
Just to make a royal sorrow rather more pre-eminent.
Ladies sighed and sobbed and drivelled—toadies spoke with bated breath,
And the banners floating half-mast made a mockery of death,
And they said Australia sorrowed for the Prince’s death—they lied!
She had done with kings and princes ere the Duke of Clarence died.
What’s a death in lofty places? What’s a noble birth?—say I—
To the poor who die in hundreds, as a man should never die?
Can they shed a tear, or sorrow for a royal dunce’s fate?
No! for royalty has taught them how to sing the songs of hate;
O’er the sounds of grief in Europe, and the lands across the tide
Rose the growl of revolution, when the Duke of Clarence died.
We—it matters not how lonely our o’er-burdened lives are spent—
Claim in common with a Clarence, straight from Adam our descent!
Even the man they call a “bastard” has a lineage to himself,
Though he traces not his fathers through the sordid line of Guelph,
And, perhaps in some foul garret in his misery and pride,
One of Nature’s Kings was dying when the Duke of Clarence died.
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poem by Henry Lawson
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