Quotes about 8 march, page 18
A Boundless Moment
He halted in the wind, and -- what was that
Far in the maples, pale, but not a ghost?
He stood there bringing March against his thought,
And yet too ready to believe the most.
"Oh, that's the Paradise-in-bloom," I said;
And truly it was fair enough for flowers
had we but in us to assume in march
Such white luxuriance of May for ours.
We stood a moment so in a strange world,
Myself as one his own pretense deceives;
And then I said the truth (and we moved on).
A young beech clinging to its last year's leaves.
poem by Robert Frost
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Boot Camp
They run up and down the trail,
They wait for incoming mail.
They have to cut their hair,
All of this is too much to bare.
They get yelled at to their face,
They march at an unfamiliar pace.
They rappel down the muddy wall,
Which they say is five stories tall.
They sleep in a small bed with no heater,
But then the day comes when they climb the Grimm Reaper.
They will serve this great nation,
But for now they're at Graduation.
Now they march looking lean and mean,
And you'll know that he truly is a U.S. Marine.
poem by Quinn Callahan
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Élégie pour les papillons
(dedicated to Mr. Lang Lang, a gifted pianist)
dark
gloomy
an elegy
an adagio
dreary battlefield
muffled bells
scream
tears
a thundering
interrupted
calmed
lonely
up and fall of
human spirits
battle trumpets
[...] Read more
poem by Ahmad Shiddiqi
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Daffodil
Gold tassel upon March's bugle-horn,
Whose blithe reveille blows from hill to hill
And every valley rings--O Daffodil!
What promise for the season newly born?
Shall wave on wave of flow'rs, full tide of corn,
O'erflow the world, then fruited Autumn fill
Hedgerow and garth? Shall tempest, blight, or chill
Turn all felicity to scathe and scorn?
Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring
Lies open, writ in blossoms; not a bird
Of evil augury is seen or heard:
Come now, like Pan's old crew, we'll dance and sing,
Or Oberon's: for hill and valley ring
To March's bugle-horn,--Earth's blood is stirred.
poem by William Allingham
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Double Standard I
Double Standard I
As an alternative to poor matrimony
man can in leaisure live, prefer polygamy,
still pleasure sweet may give through reciprocity, -
He deserves to win...
Should e’er in secrecy some white your wife commend
Forswear intimacy! Shun, fright, Sir, strife to send,
for her disloyalty indicts her, life condemned, -
She swerves to sin!
24 March 1976 robi3_0111_robi3_0000
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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In Barracks
The barrack-square, washed clean with rain,
Shines wet and wintry-grey and cold.
Young Fusiliers, strong-legged and bold,
March and wheel and march again.
The sun looks over the barrack gate,
Warm and white with glaring shine,
To watch the soldiers of the Line
That life has hired to fight with fate.
Fall out: the long parades are done.
Up comes the dark; down goes the sun.
The square is walled with windowed light.
Sleep well, you lusty Fusiliers;
Shut your brave eyes on sense and sight,
And banish from your dreamless ears
The bugle’s dying notes that say,
‘Another night; another day.’
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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The Upstairs Room
It must have been in March the rug wore through.
Now the day passes and I stare
At warped pine boards my father's father nailed,
At the twisted grain. Exposed, where emptiness allows,
Are the wormholes of eighty years; four generations' shoes
Stumble and scrape and fall
To the floor my father stained,
The new blood streaming from his head. The drift
Of autumn fires and a century's cigars, that gun's
Magnanimous and brutal smoke, endure.
In March the rug was ragged as the past. The thread
rots like the lives we fasten on. Now it is August,
And the floor is blank, worn smooth,
And, for my life, imperishable.
poem by Weldon Kees
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Not Ideas About the Thing But the Thing Itself
At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his mind.
He knew that he heard it,
A bird's cry, at daylight or before,
In the early March wind.
The sun was rising at six,
No longer a battered panache above snow...
It would have been outside.
It was not from the vast ventriloquism
Of sleep's faded papier-mache...
The sun was coming from the outside.
That scrawny cry--It was
A chorister whose c preceded the choir.
It was part of the colossal sun,
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poem by Wallace Stevens
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Sonnet: My Life’s Journey
Though road unclear, life’s journey continues
In ways intended, providentially;
I march unconcerned of the worldly views
That engulfs mankind universally!
The journey takes me through untravelled roads
And lanes, I never imagined in life;
I sense a supernatural force that goads,
Despite the surprises, setbacks and strife!
The horizon seems pretty near, yet far;
The end appears so nigh but not quite so;
Could I too don the light like bright a star?
The time is short and I have much to do!
The march is steady with God overhead;
I must not give up until I am dead!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 1-28-2010
poem by John Celes
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Annabel
Elusive wraith haunted me,
ideally I felt to approach her,
maybe she lived in a pine tree,
intangible, splendid and fair..
Nightly moon, our emotions,
euphoriant we danced in air,
abstinent needs and notions,
star visions in a sky to stare.
Our tree pines foliage dither,
winds whisper amid needles,
Annabel of March will shiver
a cold lone snowflake fiddles.
Annabel in cold March of 89,
waits to embrace winds again,
it is that same Spring of mine,
that forth will mizzle our rain.
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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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