Quotes about mote, page 2
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto I.
To Ianthe:
Not in those climes where I have late been straying,
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd;
Not in those visions to the heart displaying
Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd,
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd:
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek
To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd --
To such as see thee not my words were weak;
To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak?
Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art,
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring,
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart,
Love's image upon earth without his wing,
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining!
And surely she who now so fondly rears
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening,
Beholds the rainbow of her future years,
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears.
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Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth,
Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel’s will!
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:
Yet there I’ve wandered by thy vaunted rill;
Yes! sighed o’er Delphi’s long-deserted shrine
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine
To grace so plain a tale - this lowly lay of mine.
II.
Whilome in Albion’s isle there dwelt a youth,
Who ne in virtue’s ways did take delight;
But spent his days in riot most uncouth,
And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;
Few earthly things found favour in his sight
Save concubines and carnal companie,
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poem by Byron from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1818)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Canto the First
Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth,
Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel’s will!
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:
Yet there I’ve wandered by thy vaunted rill;
Yes! sighed o’er Delphi’s long-deserted shrine
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine
To grace so plain a tale - this lowly lay of mine.
II.
Whilome in Albion’s isle there dwelt a youth,
Who ne in virtue’s ways did take delight;
But spent his days in riot most uncouth,
And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.
Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;
Few earthly things found favour in his sight
Save concubines and carnal companie,
[...] Read more
poem by Byron from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1818)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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An ode to snow (and a speck of dust)
Began it’s life a speck of dust
One of billions
Bourne upon the air
Transformed as all things must
Be… that blossom both…
Mundane and rare
A tiny mote imbued of moisture
absorbed within… and
Without a care
Tossed willy-niilly by caprice of wind
The mote of dust
Begins to dare
To attract electrons into it’s grasp
With static gasp
And electric glare
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poem by David Whalen
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Tadaka
Samudaya janapad katha bhabibasile
tumara khola hata nirtesha karuchhi mo adaku
sandeha nahi, thik thik kari chaliba puni
ethakara sabu karmakarmani.
Mu pumi athi thia
aithu utari nebaku punu tumaku.. agaku.
Mu jane khanda pajei na rakhile
pasteibaku padiba pare
daha daha ninare luhaku tatei
garama rakhibaku heba natakara sesa jae.
A natakara sesha kouthi
Mu ta kebala gotae dala a natakara
chera jai rahichhi sata samudra bhitare
cheraku na upadibajae
tume kana swastire niswasa mari pariba.
2
Satyaku aaghata karu karu
satyatara pramana paili jetebele
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poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Dust
When the white flame in us is gone,
And we that lost the world's delight
Stiffen in darkness, left alone
To crumble in our separate night;
When your swift hair is quiet in death,
And through the lips corruption thrust
Has stilled the labour of my breath-
When we are dust, when we are dust!-
Not dead, not undesirous yet,
Still sentient, still unsatisfied,
We'll ride the air, and shine, and flit,
Around the places where we died,
And dance as dust before the sun,
And light of foot, and unconfined,
Hurry from road to road, and run
About the errands of the wind.
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poem by Rupert Brooke (1910)
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Eclogue The Third
Wouldst thou kenn Nature in her better parte?
Goe, serche the logges and bordels of the hynde ;
Gyfe theye have anie, itte ys roughe-made arte,
Inne hem you see the blakied forme of kynde .
Haveth your mind a lycheynge of a mynde?
Woulde it kenne everich thynge as it mote bee;
Woulde ytte here phrase of the vulgar from the hynde,
Wythoute wiseegger wordes and knowlache free,
Gyf soe, rede thys, whych Iche dysporteynge pende,
Gif nete besyde, yttes rhyme maie ytte commend.
MANNE
Botte whether, fayre mayde do ye goe,
O where do ye bend yer waie?
I wile knowe whether you goe,
I wylle not be asseled naie.
WOMANNE
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poem by Thomas Chatterton
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Englysh Metamorphosis
BOOKE st.
WHANNE Scythyannes, salvage as the wolves theie chacde,
Peyncted in horrowe formes bie nature dyghte,
Heckled yn beastskyns, slepte uponne the waste,
And wyth the morneynge rouzed the wolfe to fyghte,
Swefte as descendeynge lemes of roddie lyghte
Plonged to the hulstred bedde of laveynge seas,
Gerd the blacke mountayn okes yn drybblets twighte
And ranne yn thoughte alonge the azure mees,
Whole eyne dyd feerie fheene, like blue-hayred defs ,
That dreerie hange upon Dover's emblaunched clefs.
Soft boundeynge over swelleynge azure reles
The salvage natyves sawe a shyppe appere;
An uncouthe denwere to theire bosomme steles;
Theyre myghte ys knopped ynne the froste of fere.
The headed javlyn lisseth here and there;
Theie stonde, theie ronne, theie loke wyth eger eyne;
The shyppes sayle, boleynge wythe the kyndelie ayre,
Ronneth to harbour from the beateynge bryne;
Theie dryve awaie aghaste, whanne to the stronde
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poem by Thomas Chatterton
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King Edward IV. And The Tanner of Tamworth
In summer time, when leaves grow greene,
And blossoms bedecke the tree,
King Edward wolde a hunting ryde,
Some pastime for to see.
With hawke and hounde he made him bowne,
With horne, and eke with bowe;
To Drayon Basset he tooke his waye,
With all his lordes a rowe.
And he had ridden ore dale and downe
By eight of clocke in the day,
When he was ware of a bold tanner,
Come ryding along the waye.
A fayre russet coat the tanner had on,
Fast buttoned under his chin,
And under him a good cow-hide,
And a mare of four shilling.
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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The Vision Of Piers Plowman - Part 01
What this mountaigne bymeneth and the merke dale
And the feld ful of folk, I shal yow faire shewe.
A lovely lady of leere in lynnen yclothed
Cam doun fom [the] castel and called me faire,
And seide, 'Sone, slepestow? Sestow this peple-
How bisie they ben aboute the maze?
The mooste partie of this peple that passeth on this erthe,
Have thei worship in this world, thei wilne no bettre;
Of oother hevene than here holde thei no tale'.-
I was afeed of hire face, theigh she faire weere,
And seide, ' Mercy, madame, what [may] this [be] to mene?'
'The tour upon the toft', quod she, 'Truthe is therinne,
And wolde that ye wroughte as his word techeth.
For he is fader of feith and formed yow alle
Bothe with fel and with face and yaf yow fyve wittes
For to worshipe hym therwith while that ye ben here.
And therfore he highte the erthe to helpe yow echone
Of woilene, of lynnen, of liflode at nede
In mesurable manere to make yow at ese;
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poem by William Langland
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