Quotes about 8 march, page 21
The Grave You Dig Is Your Own
The tears of our ancestors fall upon our graves,
In which we have placed ourselves by our own decieving hand.
We are to be hung by the gallows, of which we build ourselves,
With jelousy and pride our noose has been woven.
The winds of time gone by, and time to come, blow past our funeral’s march,
Attended by those who also attend their own,
Generations to come wait in wonder of our knowledge,
Lies and deceit we have written and call truth.
Dreams of dreamers, whose lives have flowed past us, create a parallel reality,
An impossible event like that of a circle encompassed in another whom touch.
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poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Psalm 149
With a song of praise in their mouth
And a heart that's full of joy
Let the people of God march into Zion
And with their prayers see their enemies destroyed
And the saints will sing a new song
When the Lord comes down to reign
Sin and death will lose its sting
Never to rise again
And they will sing and dance before the Lord
And fall down before the throne
They will rejoice in the God that gave them life
They will rejoice in God alone
And justice shall march throughout the land
And every wrong shall be made right
Gods enemies will fall, one by one
And O what a terrible sight
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poem by Frank McEleny
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White Sheet
White sheet resembles virgin bride,
unblemished, waiting tender hand
to st[r]oke the fire which out of hand
flares up in ph[r]ases to deride
conventions, rhyme schemes cut and dried.
Rhymed reasons often Time test stand
through feelings all may understand,
communication deep inside
soul sanctum which can't be denied
a share in wonderland while sand
still trickles, while the wedding band
runs circles round true love defied.
Both lover, writer, radiate
when, selfless, they communicate.
(1 March 1995 revised 16 October 2006 robi03_0750_robi03_0000 SXX_ILZ)
for previous version entitled Sheet see below
Each sheet is like a virgin bride,
Unblemished, waiting for the hand
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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March
Slayer of the winter, art thou here again?
O welcome, thou that's bring'st the summer nigh!
The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain,
Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky.
Welcome, O March! whose kindly days and dry
Make April ready for the throstle's song,
Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong!
Yea, welcome March! and though I die ere June,
Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise,
Striving to swell the burden of the tune
That even now I hear thy brown birds raise,
Unmindful of the past or coming days;
Who sing: 'Oh joy! a new year is begun:
What happiness to look upon the sun!'
Ah, what begetteth all this storm of bliss
But death himself, who crying solemnly,
E'en from the heart of sweet Forgetfulness,
Bids us 'Rejoice, lest pleasureless ye die,
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poem by William Morris
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The Fallen Subaltern
The starshells float above, the bayonets glisten;
We bear our fallen friend without a sound;
Below the waiting legions lie and listen
To us, who march upon their burial-ground.
Wound in the flag of England, here we lay him;
The guns will flash and thunder o’er the grave;
What other winding sheet should now array him,
What other music should salute the brave?
As goes the Sun-god in his chariot glorious,
When all his golden banners are unfurled,
So goes the soldier, fallen but victorious,
And leaves behind a twilight in the world.
And those who come this way, in days hereafter,
Will know that here a boy for England fell,
Who looked at danger with the eyes of laughter,
And on the charge his days were ended well.
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poem by Herbert Asquith
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Spring In Lisnaboy
My many walks on memory lane i enjoy
'Twill soon be Spring again in old Lisnaboy
And though March 1 is the first of the calendar Spring
March can be wet and cold and few songbirds do sing.
But April she comes with her hosts of wildflowers
And the nesting birds sing in the mild April showers
And old Lisnaboy at it's best to be seen
And everywhere looking so lush and so green.
And April will fade to the beauty of May
And the swallows above the lush fields all the day
Will sing as they chase flies with young to be fed
In their mud nest on a rafter of some nearby shed
And at dawn before the sun shines in the sky
The skylark to greet the day upwards does fly
And the hawthorns heavy laden in their blossoms of white
In the full bloom of beauty a beautiful sight.
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poem by Francis Duggan
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I Respect Them
I respect them though the last post for them will not be played
And never in their honour will there be a parade
And yet their anthem for peace to my ears sounds so sweet
Those peace loving peace marchers who walk along the street.
They march on in their thousands up to the City Square
Their dream is for a peaceful World a common goal they share
And yet in their honour never a peace memorial day
The people who glorify war always seem to have their way.
Not seen as heroines or heroes medals they don't have to show
And few of their life stories would wish to read or know
They only wish to make peace with those known as the foe
And from their efforts only the flower of peace can grow.
Unsung heroes and heroines is how they seem to me
They only march for a better life and a World of war that's free
They only wish to send some positive energy in the balmy evening air
To the negative and lesser enlightened in the bigger World out there.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Drafted
The biggest moment in our lives was that when first he cried,
From that day unto this, for him, we've struggled side by side.
We can recount his daily deeds, and backwards we can look,
And proudly live again the time when first a step he took.
I see him trudging off to school, his mother at his side,
And when she left him there alone she hurried home and cried.
And then the sturdy chap of eight that was, I proudly see,
Who packed a little grip and took a fishing trip with me.
Among the lists of boys to go his name has now appeared;
To us has come the sacrifice that mothers all have feared;
And though we dread the parting hour when he shall march away,
We love him and the Flag too much to ask of him to stay.
His baby ways shall march with him, and every joy we've had,
Somewhere in France some day shall be a little brown-eyed lad;
A toddler and a child at school, the chum that once I knew
Shall wear our country's uniform, for they've been drafted, too.
poem by Edgar Albert Guest
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Poetics
Some from within some from without
without a doubt flow true
as soul-song spins tale which begins
to glow, then grows anew.
Through weaving in and weeding out -
touch intuitions cue -
from phases past fair phrases spin
through threads which more threads brew.
Thus in and out and round about
rhyme climbs as curlicue
expands ideas, wins interest in
both content, form, will woo
the readers who fresh insights scout
both options chosen, those fates glue,
into life's sins, its losses, wins,
would revelation view.
© Jonathan Robin – robi3_0778 written 30 March 2005 revised 20070619 and 20081112 for previous version see below
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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On The Death Of Mr. James Van Otton
The first day of this month the last hath bin
To that deare soule. March never did come in
So lyonlike as now: our lives are made
As fickle as the weather or the shade.
March dust growes plenty now, while wasting fate
Strike heare to dust, well worth the proverbs rate.
I could be angry with the fates that they
This man of men so soone have stole away.
Meane they a kingdome to undoe, or make
The universe a Cripple while they take
From us so cheife a part, whose art knew how
To make a man a man, nor would allow
Nature an Heteroclite still to remaine
Irregular, but with a jugling paine
Deceive men of their greife, and make them know
That he could cure more than ere chance or foe
Dare to instring. Death now growes politique:
While Otton liv'd herselfe was weake and sicke
For want of food, therefore at him she aimde
Who bar'd her of her purpose. All is maimde,
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poem by William Strode
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