Quotes about moors, page 2
Virtues inscribe my feast
Rains embrace adjoining, in sepia stills,
sea waves plea on fog moors, and stars,
virtues inscribe my feast, and blue quills.
nights enslave our modes, beyond bars.
Sea waves plea on fog moors, and stars,
Winds whistle in pine trees, of longness,
nights enslave our modes, behind bars,
a cold gust enters my window openness.
Winds whistle in pine trees, of longness,
cloudy call, ominous, transports my rave,
a cold wind enters, my window openness.
with lost lives escaping to celestial naves.
Cloudy call, ominous, transports my rave,
my house lays in fog, amid vast pastures,
with lost lives escaping to celestial naves,
misty entreaty of air formed structures.
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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Holcombe Poem/Poem For a Girl I Didn't Meet
walking on the moors thinking about how I didn't meet you yesterday
heather underfoot and mist over Pendle
the moor changing like an animal/brown to green grey to
purple with the weather
sky blue at the edges
like a letter that came too late .
. . . Undine rising from the maters her golden hair
dripping in the moonlight . . . dead bird on a fence blood
dripping from its neck . . . Isis ,searching the rushes
for her murdered lover . . . small girl with a fishing rod
in a rushing valley full of ferns . . . the last .supper
followed by the Four lust Desserts . . . watching the
white mocking figure at the edge of the DarkForest
. . . beating naked blond haired girls with
long stemmed purple flowers . . . Osiris judging
the dead mist rising up the valley seaweed tangled
in her moonlight hair . . .
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poem by Adrian Henri
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Superior Force for M 'lady Tara
Across the windswept moors it came.
A cloudburst worthy of the name
A million, million spears of rain
which pierced the earth again again.
The suddenly the storm has passed.
The sky no longer overcast.
A vast expanse of palest blue
with sunlight shining down anew.
The raging wind has ceased to scream
as if the storm had been a dream.
The thirsty earth has drunk her fill
replenished every flowing rill.
I venture forth resume my stroll.
But in the distance hear the roll
of thunders war drums ceaselessly
Beat out a rhythm threateningly.
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Shires on the Moray Frith
Worthy of either song or story
Are the Shires found Frith of Moray.
Here lies the valley of Strathspey,
Famed for its music-lively, gay.
Elgin cathedral's 'prentice aisle
Is glory of that ruined pile.
What modern chisel now could trace
Fine scuplture of that ancient place?
And Forres, famed for Sweyn's stane,
In honor of that kingly Dane.
'Graved with warriors' runes and rhyme
Long prior to historic times.
For a thousand years it's been forgot
Who was victor-Dane or Scot.
It is the country of Macbeth,
Where good King Duncan met his death,
And Barren Heath-that place of fear-
Stood witches' cauldron of Shakespeare.
Nairn's Cawdor Castle strong remains-
Full worthy of the ancient Thanes.
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poem by James McIntyre
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The Siege and Conquest of Alhama
The Moorish King rides up and down,
Through Granada's royal town;
From Elvira's gate to those
Of Bivarambla on he goes.
Woe is me, Alhama!
Letters to the monarch tell
How Alhama's city fell:
In the fire the scroll he threw,
And the messenger he slew.
Woe is me, Albamal
He quits his mule, and mounts his horse,
And through the street directs his course;
Through the street of Zacatin
To the Alhambra spurring in.
Woe is me, Alhama!
When the Alhambra walls he gain'd,
On the moment he ordain'd
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A Very Mournful Ballad On The Siege And Conquest Of Alhama
Which, in the Arabic language, is to the following purport:
I
THE Moorish King rides up and down,
Through Granada's royal town;
From Elvira's gate to those
Of Bivarambla on he goes.
Woe is me, Alhama!
II
Letters to the monarch tell
How Alhama's city fell:
In the fire the scroll he threw,
And the messenger he slew.
Woe is me, Albamal
III
He quits his mule, and mounts his horse,
And through the street directs his course;
Through the street of Zacatin
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A Hymn to the Name and Honour of the Admirable Saint Teresa
LOVE, thou are absolute, sole Lord
Of life and death. To prove the word,
We'll now appeal to none of all
Those thy old soldiers, great and tall,
Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach down
With strong arms their triumphant crown:
Such as could with lusty breath
Speak loud, unto the face of death,
Their great Lord's glorious name; to none
Of those whose spacious bosoms spread a throne
For love at large to fill. Spare blood and sweat:
We'll see Him take a private seat,
And make His mansion in the mild
And milky soul of a soft child.
Scarce has she learnt to lisp a name
Of martyr, yet she thinks it shame
Life should so long play with that breath
Which spent can buy so brave a death.
She never undertook to know
What death with love should have to do.
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poem by Richard Crashaw
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A Thing Of Beauty
A thing of beauty fails in the subdue light,
And before revelation sorrow takes the place
Of the breath of life, with seasons changing swift,
We follow the flight from beginning to the end.
And find again the heart of another brighter summer,
Display a thing of beauty hanging in heaven,
The excitement outstretch with blessings.
In Yorkshire, time moves more slowly by great force,
Than the gales that blow in the busy cities of London,
Searching the shops for things to make people happy,
Time and chance opportunity stirs hostility everywhere,
Within the soul comes murmuring from every town,
Requiring the gold we earn by pleasure spurned.
They lift their voices for heroes and fans to loudly cheer.
The youths loitering till late on darker streets,
The silence of paradise is broken dead leaves falling.
Rustle within the vale, the sound of a strange heroic tale,
Hostility gives chase and trouble engages lawless men.
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poem by Gerry Legister
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Resolution and Independence
I
There was a roaring in the wind all night;
The rain came heavily and fell in floods;
But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
The birds are singing in the distant woods;
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;
The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.
II
All things that love the sun are out of doors;
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;
The grass is bright with rain-drops;--on the moors
The hare is running races in her mirth;
And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun,
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.
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poem by William Wordsworth
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The Heart Of The Bruce
It was upon an April morn,
While yet the frost lay hoar,
We heard Lord James's bugle-horn
Sound by the rocky shore.
Then down we went, a hundred knights,
All in our dark array,
And flung our armour in the ships
That rode within the bay.
We spoke not as the shore grew less,
But gazed in silence back,
Where the long billows swept away
The foam behind our track.
And aye the purple hues decay'd
Upon the fading hill,
And but one heart in all that ship
Was tranquil, cold, and still.
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poem by William Edmondstoune Aytoun
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