Quotes about baneful, page 2
The Wait
The sun has long receded out from the sky,
Pallid gloom invades the wintry air,
Morbid silence hangs over,
Memory sleeps like hibernating toads.
The trees are bare with no leaves to array,
The Earth lies shielded in its icy crust,
There is stillness, the stillness of the grave,
Breaking it, a fox is heard howling afar.
Solitary lies he, in his battered shack,
With a run out lantern throwing pale light,
It burns sending spouts of fume,
Like the last breath of the dying soul.
He listens intent for advancing steps,
Of a long awaited friend, sure to come,
To deliver him of his baneful state,
To row him away across the frozen seas.
poem by Valsa George
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A Mother's Grief
There are no sorrows
Like a mother's grief
No one can ever know
And it is never brief.
The pain she carries
Is like daily death
Though memory buries
She cannot forget.
Where would she run
For a healing balm?
Tears for a lost son
Though shed, could not calm
A baneful mother's heart
For the death was so tragic
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poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Drunken Roads
Oh, sundered lampposts ignite
The oil black streets for a night
And in the phosphorescent facet
I shall amble in levity from musing a casket
Debonairly alluring in its jet black glaze
I'll let my tattered heels loose in the haze
Such a suede wintry patio to trample
A fervent flee to a famished black hole
And dispense the baneful protraction
Of a lifelong subsistence in fractions
Buoy me upon your macadamized skin
Oh, drunken roads, far from the chagrin
These undulating fluid pavements
Would stretch the vexing torments
Though I would rather linger a phantom
Salt and burned beneath a tombstone,
A banshee caterwauling for camaraderie
Among the drunken roads I opted be
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poem by Norman Santos
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Vicissitude V: Consistency in the Season
The penumbra of a nefarious moon
In the semblance of a harlequin's simper
Waning with the dark to topple
And give way to a braggart sun—
‘Twas a play of aeons and clockworks
In their perpetual and hallow realms
Dragging us, in favor and in sorrow
Of maiming vexations and perplexities:
Of a hidden yearning for abeyance
"Winter—comes the arctic sunder,
Spring—hails the jealous lover,
Summer—fan the flames, a fire to die,
Autumn—invokes the chars to fly"
How do we resign from vicissitude
And raise a fist from the mist
Of baneful soirees and feasts
Where we play the jester
The season mocks in great pleasure?
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poem by Norman Santos
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The Believer's Safety
Incarnate God! the soul that knows
Thy name's mysterious power
Shall dwell in undisturbed repose,
Nor fear the trying hour.
Thy wisdom, faithfulness and love,
To feeble helpless worms;
A buckler and a refuge prove,
From enemies and storms.
In vain the fowler spreads his net,
To draw them from thy care;
Thy timely call instructs their feet,
To shun the artful snare.
When like a baneful pestilence,
Sin mows its thousands down
On every side, without defence,
Thy grace secures thine own.
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poem by John Newton
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The First Tooth
SISTER.
Through the house what busy joy,
Just because the infant boy
Has a tiny tooth to show.
I have got a double row,
All as white, and all as small;
Yet no one cares for mine at all.
He can say but half a word,
Yet that single sound's preferred
To all the words that I can say
In the longest summer day.
He cannot walk, yet if he put
With mimic motion out his foot,
As if he thought he were advancing,
It's prized more than my best dancing.
BROTHER.
Sister, I know, you jesting are,
Yet O! of jealousy beware.
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poem by Charles Lamb
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Written in the Blank Page of the Sorrows of Werther
O thou, who turnest this impassioned leaf,
Where Anguish claims the sympathetic grief,
If no relentless prejudice can bind
In stagnant frost the mercy of thy mind;
If thou shalt guess how hard to inflict the smart
Of icy absence on the glowing heart,
When all that charm'd the sense, th' affection won,
Dwells in that form, which prudence bids us shun;
That present, soothes each rankling woe to rest,
Departed, desolates the languid breast,
Then thou'lt lament, amidst thy virtuous blame,
The wretched victim of a baneful flame,
Where ill-starr'd Love its deadliest lightning shed
On the pale Suicide's devoted head,
And woes, that would no holier thought allow,
Threw ghastly shadows on the bleeding brow.--
Still, as thou weep'st their unresisted powers,
The virtues of the lost-one's happier hours
Shall o'er his fatal errors gently rise,
Live in thy heart, and consecrate thy sighs!
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poem by Anna Seward
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To the University of Cambridge
While an intrinsic ardor prompts to write,
The muses promise to assist my pen;
'Twas not long since I left my native shore
The land of errors, and Egyptian gloom:
Father of mercy, 'twas thy gracious hand
Brought me in safety from those dark abodes.
Students, to you 'tis giv'n to scan the heights
Above, to traverse the ethereal space,
And mark the systems of revolving worlds.
Still more, ye sons of science ye receive
The blissful news by messengers from heav'n,
How Jesus' blood for your redemption flows.
See him with hands out-stretcht upon the cross;
Immense compassion in his bosom glows;
He hears revilers, nor resents their scorn:
What matchless mercy in the Son of God!
When the whole human race by sin had fall'n,
He deign'd to die that they might rise again,
And share with him in the sublimest skies,
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poem by Phillis Wheatley
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Autumn
I have allowed my family to scatter,
All those who were my dearest to depart,
And once again an age-long loneliness
Comes in to fill all nature and my heart.
Alone this cottage shelters me and you:
The wood is an unpeopled wilderness
And ways and footpaths wear, as in the song.
Weeds almost overgrowing each recess;
And where we sit together by ourselves
The log walls gaze upon us mournfully.
We gave no promise to leap obstacles,
We shall yet face our end with honesty.
At one we'll sit, at three again we'll rise,
My book with me, your sewing in your hand,
Nor with the dawning shall we realize
When all our kissing shall have had an end.
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poem by Boris Pasternak
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Man Beyond Nothingness
A particle afloat in the ocean of infinity,
Yet, so conscious of self in profuse vanity –
Lofty though his thoughts may be, they’re all profanity.
Man is nothing, made of nothing, that’s his identity.
Emptiness craves for sensation beyond sanity,
Like a black hole eating anything in its vicinity,
Such is the tale of empty, chaotic, gravity;
Man is nothing, made of nothing, that’s his identity.
Lost in a world of baneful, belligerent brevity,
Filled with protests of ignoramus sincerity,
Tossed between lines lacking any clarity,
He lives, dies, and is buried in utter poverty.
The Son of God came down from His celestial city,
He left Heaven and donned the garb of humanity.
He lived, loved, and served in all simplicity,
Then died by the hands of those professing religiosity.
But, He arose the third day, breaking death’s jaws of fatality,
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poem by Domenic Marbaniang
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