Quotes about tower, page 2
Thunder In The Tower
Well, the lightning flashed at midnight
And the dogs did howl along
You dont believe it - unless youve seen it
It was the night the thunder broke
There is no more creation
No room for good - no hope
You better cry for salvation - as
The reaper dangled by the rope
A scream for help - the morning after
Theyd equalised the score
And in their minds - theres only laughter
A smile - without a cause
And there was thunder in the tower
As the cat crept out
There was thunder in the tower
Theres no escape - no doubt
Its been the night the birds were silent
And the town was deadly still
A curling lip - an icy grip
n bony fingers that can kill
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song performed by U. D. O.
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Lay of the Last Minstrel: Canto I
Introduction.
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His wither'd cheek, and tresses gray,
Seem'd to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the Bards was he,
Who sung of Border chivalry;
For, welladay! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
And he, neglected and oppress'd,
Wish'd to be with them, and at rest.
No more on prancing palfrey borne,
He caroll'd, light as lark at morn;
No longer courted and caress'd,
High placed in hall, a welcome guest,
He pour'd, to lord and lady gay,
The unpremeditated lay:
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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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The Bridal Of Triermain
Introduction.
I.
Come Lucy! while 'tis morning hour
The woodland brook we needs must pass;
So, ere the sun assume his power,
We shelter in our poplar bower,
Where dew lies long upon the flower,
Though vanish'd from the velvet grass.
Curbing the stream, this stony ridge
May serve us for a silvan bridge;
For here, compell'd to disunite,
Round petty isles the runnels glide,
And chafing off their puny spite,
The shallows murmurers waste their might,
Yielding to footstep free and light
A dry-shod pass from side to side.
II.
Nay, why this hesitating pause?
And, Lucy, as thy step withdraws,
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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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The Lady of Shalott (1842)
PART I
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
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poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Ball & Chain
(colin moulding)
Save us from the ball and chain,
Save us from the ball and chain,
Save us from the ball and chain,
Oh yeah,
The diggers and the tower cranes,
The diggers and the tower cranes.
Dont want demolition,
Dont want your compensation,
Its not just bricks and mortar,
We are lambs to slaughter.
Save us from the ball and chain,
Save us from the ball and chain,
Save us from the ball and chain,
Oh yeah,
The diggers and the tower cranes,
The diggers and the tower cranes.
Must we live in fear,
From those who shed no tears?
Our one and only shelter,
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song performed by Xtc
Added by Lucian Velea
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Ball And Chain
(Colin Moulding)
Save us from the ball and chain,
Save us from the ball and chain,
Save us from the ball and chain,
oh yeah,
The diggers and the tower cranes,
The diggers and the tower cranes.
Don't want demolition,
Don't want your compensation,
It's not just bricks and mortar,
We are lambs to slaughter.
Save us from the ball and chain,
Save us from the ball and chain,
Save us from the ball and chain,
oh yeah,
The diggers and the tower cranes,
The diggers and the tower cranes.
Must we live in fear,
From those who shed no tears?
Our one and only shelter,
[...] Read more
song performed by Xtc
Added by Lucian Velea
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Rokeby: Canto II.
I.
Far in the chambers of the west,
The gale had sigh'd itself to rest;
The moon was cloudless now and clear,
But pale, and soon to disappear.
The thin grey clouds wax dimly light
On Brusleton and Houghton height;
And the rich dale, that eastward lay,
Waited the wakening touch of day,
To give its woods and cultured plain,
And towers and spires, to light again.
But, westward, Stanmore's shapeless swell,
And Lunedale wild, and Kelton-fell,
And rock-begirdled Gilmanscar,
And Arkingarth, lay dark afar;
While, as a livelier twilight falls,
Emerge proud Barnard's banner'd walls
High crown'd he sits, in dawning pale,
The sovereign of the lovely vale.
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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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The Lord of the Isles: Canto V.
I.
On fair Loch-Ranza stream'd the early day,
Thin wreaths of cottage-smoke are upward curl'd
From the lone hamlet, which her inland bay
And circling mountains sever from the world.
And there the fisherman his sail unfurl'd,
The goat-herd drove his kids to steep Ben-Ghoil,
Before the hut the dame her spindle twirl'd,
Courting the sunbeam as she plied her toil, -
For, wake where'er he may, Man wakes to care and coil.
But other duties call'd each convent maid,
Roused by the summons of the moss-grown bell;
Sung were the matins, and the mass was said,
And every sister sought her separate cell,
Such was the rule, her rosary to tell.
And Isabel has knelt in lonely prayer;
The sunbeam, through the narrow lattice, fell
Upon the snowy neck and long dark hair,
As stoop'd her gentle head in meek devotion there.
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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto II.
I.
Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven!-but thou, alas!
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire-
Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was,
And is, despite of war and wasting fire,
And years, that bade thy worship to expire:
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow,
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire
Of men who never felt the sacred glow
That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts bestow.
II.
Ancient of days! august Athena! where,
Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul?
Gone-glimmering through the dream of things that were:
First in the race that led to Glory's goal,
They won, and pass'd away-is this the whole?
A school-boy's tale, the wonder of an hour!
The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower,
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Canto the Second
I.
Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven! - but thou, alas,
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire -
Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was,
And is, despite of war and wasting fire,
And years, that bade thy worship to expire:
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow,
Is the drear sceptre and dominion dire
Of men who never felt the sacred glow
That thoughts of thee and thine on polished breasts bestow.
II.
Ancient of days! august Athena! where,
Where are thy men of might, thy grand in soul?
Gone - glimmering through the dream of things that were:
First in the race that led to Glory’s goal,
They won, and passed away - is this the whole?
A schoolboy’s tale, the wonder of an hour!
[...] Read more
poem by Byron from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1818)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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