Quotes about sportsmen, page 2
I feel sorry sometimes for these sportsmen and women who put in just as much effort as the footballers. For example, athletes train at least as hard as footballers but have to be happy if they can earn enough to finance a decent education.
quote by Angela Merkel
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Be euphoric
It is with the release of endorphins
That you feel good and are euphoric.
It happens when you are in love and courting.
It also happens after a hard run
Or a toiling game, notwithstanding strains.
The sportsmen aren’t a womanizer.
27.01.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Perversion Of Men And Women
There are women obsessed with actors,
Singers and sportsmen of popularity
To such extent of horbouring wishes
Of being impregnated by them.
Most of men are obsessed with heroines,
Dancers and singers with glamour in looks
To an extent of wishing to enjoy them.
Impregnating is not in their agenda.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Hated and Loved
Hated are the cruel of the ages,
Their emotions are stronger than stone and pages.
Hated are the young of the ages,
Where are endeavours, the support and fences?
Hated are the sportsmen of the ages
Who cancel their dreams and farmhouses.
Hated are the professions of the ages
That send messages.
Hated are men and women of the ages
Who work with people in the madhouses.
Hatred is a disease we conquered when love sustained us,
When love was cherished in absoluteness.
poem by Naveed Akram
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India, how to increase the Olympics medal tally
God of Games
who rides on chariots,
carriages and horses
that roar like thunder and
flash like heaven's lightnings
God of Sports
physiques lithe, muscular
and tough that can bounce over
the Himalayas and traverse Mount Everest
with the strength of Hanuman
it is time hindus adopt
a God of Sports, of Games
like the ancient greeks, romans
who will be be inspired to be
champion chariot riders,
premium swimmers braving the
treacherous Ganges and
sportsmen thumping up Everest
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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My Hunting Song
Forward! Hark forward's the cry!
One more fence and we're out on the open,
So to us at once, if you want to live near us!
Hark to them, ride to them, beauties! as on they go,
Leaping and sweeping away in the vale below!
Cowards and bunglers, whose heart or whose eye is slow,
Find themselves staring alone.
So the great cause flashes by;
Nearer and clearer its purposes open,
While louder and prouder the world-echoes cheer us:
Gentlemen sportsmen, you ought to live up to us,
Lead us, and lift us, and hallo our game to us-
We cannot call the hounds off, and no shame to us-
Don't be left staring alone!
Eversley, 1849.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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To The Happy Hunting Grounds
Wide windy reaches of high stubble field;
A long gray road, bordered with dusty pines;
A wagon moving in a 'cloud by day.'
Two city sportsmen with a dove between,
Breast-high upon a fence and fast asleep
A solitary dove, the only dove
In twenty counties, and it sick, or else
It were not there. Two guns that fire as one,
With thunder simultaneous and loud;
Two shattered human wrecks of blood and bone!
And later, in the gloaming, comes a man
The worthy local coroner is he,
Renowned all thereabout, and popular
With many a remain. All tenderly
Compiling in a game-bag the debris,
He glides into the gloom and fades from sight.
The dove, cured of its ailment by the shock,
Has flown, meantime, on pinions strong and fleet,
To die of age in some far foreign land.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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The Months
January brings the snow,
makes our feet and fingers glow.
February brings the rain,
Thaws the frozen lake again.
March brings breezes loud and shrill,
stirs the dancing daffodil.
April brings the primrose sweet,
Scatters daises at our feet.
May brings flocks of pretty lambs,
Skipping by their fleecy damns.
June brings tulips, lilies, roses,
Fills the children's hand with posies.
Hot july brings cooling showers,
Apricots and gillyflowers.
[...] Read more
poem by Sara Coleridge
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The River
The river that crosses the high plain like
an artery has only muddy water since it
didn´t rain in the summer.
Wild horses and donkeys come here to
drink, but often they look up and scan
the horizon weary of man and his dogs.
They served mankind for thousands of
years but with modern farming methods
they are no longer needed and have gone
feral. Free now, but freedom comes at
a prize, winter can be hard and often they
are hunted by sportsmen who kill for fun.
By the mountain there is a corral but only
the stupid and sick go there, the rest know
they are fattened up and used as sausage
meat, which the town uphill is famous for.
Every Octobers there is a gigantic party in
the hill town, beer is senselessly drunk and
tons of sausages eaten, the river, that crosses
the plain, becomes a putrid pool of human
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poem by Oskar Hansen
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Otter Hunting In Ribblesdale
Through yon little planting, by yonder streamside,
Where Ribble's sweet waters flow softly and wide,
While the dew's on the meadows it's up and away,
A-hunting the otter at break o' the day.
0 hear the glad music of horn and of hound;
0 hear how they welcome in day with the sound:
0 hear how the valley is loud with the strain
And the woodlands give answer with echo again.
Come rise up full soon, come rise up and go,
The mist's on the hill and the river runs low:
While the dew's on the meadows it's up and away
A-hunting the otter at break o' the day.
Now Ribble, sun-chequered, slides joyfully down
Which late thro' the bridges roared foaming and brown:
Now hot lies the scent, and the morning is still, &mdash
Hark for'ard, good hounds, to a view and a kill!
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poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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