Quotes about 8 march, page 23
I Know Not What Course Others May Take!
Is life so dear?
Or peace so sweet!
As to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery?
Forbid it, Almighty God!
I know not what course others may take!
But as for me...
Give me liberty or give me death!
~Now...
Who amongst you have heard that before? ~
'I have Mister Potts.
My mom said that just last night to my dad.'
~You amuse, Mister D Plus!
But no!
That statement is part of Patrick Henry's famous
'Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death' speech.
Delivered March 23,1775...
To the House of Representatives.
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Gardener XIV: I Was Walking by the Road
I was walking by the road, I do not
know why, when the noonday was past
and bamboo branches rustled in the
wind.
The prone shadows with their out-
stretched arms clung to the feet of
the hurrying light.
The koels were weary of their
songs.
I was walking by the road, I do not
know why.
The hut by the side of the water is
shaded by an overhanging tree.
Some on was busy with her work,
and her bangles made music in the
corner.
I stood before this hut, I know not
why.
The narrow winding road crosses
many a mustard field, and many a
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poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The Impossible Dream
To dream the impossible dream
To fight the unbeatable foe
To bear with unbearable sorrow
To run where the brave dare not go
To right the unrightable wrong
To love pure and chaste from afar
To try when your arms are too weary
To reach the unreachable star
This is my quest to follow that star
No matter how hopeless, no matter how far
To fight for the right without question or pause
To be willing to march into Hell for a heavenly cause
And I know if I'll only be true to this glorious quest
That my heart will lie peaceful and calm when I'm laid to my rest
And the world will be better for this
That one man, scorned and covered with scars
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song performed by Peter O'Toole, music by Mitch Leigh, lyrics by Joe Darion from Man of La Mancha (1965)
Added by Dan Costinaş
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A Poet's Wooing
I woo'd a woman once,
But she was sharper than an eastern wind.
Tennyson
"What may I do to make you glad,
To make you glad and free,
Till your light smiles glance
And your bright eyes dance
Like sunbeams on the sea?
Read some rhyme that is blithe and gay
Of a bright May morn and a marriage day?"
And she sighed in a listless way she had,--
"Do not read--it will make me sad!"
"What shall I do to make you glad--
To make you glad and gay,
Till your eyes gleam bright
As the stars at night
When as light as the light of day
Sing some song as I twang the strings
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poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Together A...gain
TOGETHER A...GAIN
Be not severe, steer Chance towards dance scheme,
as harsh March veers to sothing June, cleanse slate,
Contemplate completion, name the date
open source parched hearts may soothe on stream.
Weigh way together where both share joy’s dream
withdraw poor stumbling blocks, steps separate
bereaving, grieving, signing single state,
two castaways from land of might-have-been
Cyphers on life’s screen two deemed supreme
coded blue skies – time flies – is it too late?
Apart, no partial thoughts can compensate –
Or fill a void where one avoids hopes teamed.
Enchantment may be spelled, as well this theme
should show could chance flow true, anticipate
return to starting blocks, unlocked love’s gate, -
empathy enhancing shared esteem.
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poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Last Winter Storm
The Last Winter Storm
Every year, at the scheduled arrival of March,
Mother Nature became seasonally enraged,
Like a lion, an unjustly imprisoned beast in a cage,
Like a cancer patient walking on stage
For the last time - the last baby is now aged;
Two seasons are about to crush and crash.
Every thing started with the hauling winds
Slapping their huge feathers on my windows,
Mother Nature’s heavily breathing on different rows
Of the trees that refused to be scattered all over like the sands
Of the battered beaches, like the small adoring plants,
Which the deceased grandmothers left on the slants.
Every year, it is the same old thing, the same old rituals,
The school children just love it, since all classes are canceled;
The teachers are understandably elated, because they were told
To stay home as well; the aborted duels
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poem by Hebert Logerie
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March Of The Monks Of Bangor
When the heathen trumpet's clang
Round beleaguer'd Chester rang,
Veiled nun and friar grey
March'd from Bangor's fair Abbaye;
High their holy anthem sounds,
Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds,
Floating down the silvan Dee,
O miserere, Domine!
On the long procession goes,
Glory round their crosses glows,
And the Virgin-mother mild
In their peaceful banner smiled;
Who could think such saintly band
Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand?
Such was the Divine decree,
O miserere, Domine!
Bands that masses only sung,
Hands that censers only swung,
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poem by Sir Walter Scott
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American Soldier Lyrics
It's not a priest that gives us our freedom of religion
And it's not a reporter that gives us our freedom of voice.
It's not any judge, lawyer, politician, or teacher
But the blood of a soldier that has sacrific
ed by choice.
Our soldiers line up to be remembered
As the best of the best at their job.
They wish to be needed and depended on
To save all we love from the mob.
They risk their life and limb for liberty
Standing firm against evil unwilling to break.
To be part of something greater than themselves
They are willing to sacrifice whatever it will take.
FREEDOM
In their new uniforms
The young march off
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poem by Tom Zart
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An Anthem To Freedom
Were you there when Jesus bled
Before the cross, in sins were dead
By your hand in Christ were led
On to victory
Now's the day and now's the hour
Stand with Christ and stand in power
He's our Rock and strong High Tower
We're free from slavery
So will you come and fight the fight
March in the day and not the night
We will send them all to flight
This will be our day
Free men march and free men die
And all proclaim our God on high
His glory fills the earth and sky
Come Lord soon we pray
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poem by Frank McEleny
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Tom Zart's = Freedom & Our Flag = 2012
FREEDOM
In their new uniforms
The young march off
Not knowing who shall return.
With a proud devotion
They brandish their flag
Leaving loved ones to wonder and yearn.
May we all be buried
By all of our children
Is an ancient tribal prayer.
They're so easy to lose
But so hard to forget
Such a burden for a parent to bear.
Oh, the taste of victory
Shall soon be forgotten
But, never that which was lost.
For those rows of white headstones
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poem by Tom Zart
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