Quotes about damp, page 3
Victor Galbraith. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)
Under the walls of Monterey
At daybreak the bugles began to play,
Victor Galbraith!
In the mist of the morning damp and gray,
These were the words they seemed to say:
'Come forth to thy death,
Victor Galbraith!'
Forth he came, with a martial tread;
Firm was his step, erect his head;
Victor Galbraith,
He who so well the bugle played,
Could not mistake the words it said:
'Come forth to thy death,
Victor Galbraith!'
He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky,
He looked at the files of musketry,
Victor Galbraith!
And he said, with a steady voice and eye,
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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Walk Through Kale.
Walking through a field of kale
Jane in front and you following behind
brushing on your hands over
the dew damp leaves
breathing in the morning air
she looking around
in case the farmer
or one of his farmhands
sees you wander
through the tall kale
you notice she has a slight wiggle
as she walks ahead
not intentional
not like some of the girls at school
you put on the wiggling hips
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poem by Terry Collett
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The Lake of the Dismal Swamp
'THEY made her a grave too cold and damp
For a soul so warm and true;
And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,
Where all night long, by a firefly lamp,
She paddles her white canoe.
And her firefly lamp I soon shall see,
And her paddle I soon shall hear;
Long and moving our life shall be
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree,
When the footstep of death is near.'
Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds, -
His path was rugged and sore,
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
Through many a fen where the serpent feeds,
And man never trod before.
And when on the earth he sank to sleep,
If slumber his eyelids knew,
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poem by Thomas Moore
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Rainy Day Under Trees
She stood with you
under the trees
the rain falling hard
the Sunday church service
had been a wet affair
the walk home together
then the bus
to the end of the road
and she said
Is it ever going to stop?
her hair was limp
and hung over
her forehead
her eyes bright
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poem by Terry Collett
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After The Rain [for W. D. Snodgrass]
The barbed-wire fences rust
As their cedar uprights blacken
After a night of rain.
Some early, innocent lust
Gets me outdoors to smell
The teasle, the pelted bracken,
The cold, mossed-over well,
Rank with its iron chain,
And takes me off for a stroll.
Wetness has taken over.
From drain and creeper twine
It’s runnelled and trenched and edged
A pebbled serpentine
Secretly, as though pledged
To attain a difficult goal
And join some important river.
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poem by Anthony Evan Hecht
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Nothing But Death
There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.
And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.
Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
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poem by Pablo Neruda
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Modern Love V
The spring's audio tempest brings a mauve sunrise alarm full of chirping avarian prayers.
The gust's mouths open the blackness with yawns
while awakening dewy green fertile cornfields.
The stabbing wind's hands paint dalisque clouds on the innocent blue-sky like flapping white kerchiefs of goodbye to memories.
The infinite wind's broken heart flutters and emotes warm misty tears while performing to silent love's audience.
Among ancient swaying trees the mezzo tenor wind's song jumps around like Verdi's Egyptian victory march.
The whispering wind reveals its secret, as it churns the ocean's floor, touching the delicate pearl in your salty oyster.
Pirate whirling wind, that gathers quickly and steals away
forever-excessive foliage and spent hearts, like fluttering arrows of parrots.
Whimsical warm wind that melts your
winter ardor like a foamless tasmanian wave, spent and resting ashore in your damp tomb.
Your lip's kisses are deserting and diving back to your heart rather than waging an equinox battle with summer's breeze.
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poem by Liberatore Suffoletta
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The Hole in the Bathroom Wall
The cottage was old, it needed some work
The walls were of crumbling stone,
The windows, like eyes in a tumbledown Kirk
Were staring, like sockets of bone;
I hadn't much money, I hadn't much choice,
'I'll take it, ' I said to the man,
If only I'd known what the future would bring
I would never have shaken his hand.
My marriage had failed, I had my young son
Just three and a half in the spring,
We bought an old bed and a table, two chairs,
Drove up there and went to move in;
The floorboards were creaky, the walls were damp,
The place was as filthy as hell,
I sat the young lad on the floor by a lamp
And I cleaned, until darkness fell.
The rooms were all empty, they echoed and stirred,
I thought I heard whispers and moans,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Richborough Castle
THESE three grey walls are still stout and strong,
Though the fourth wide wall has crumbled away
Where the sea swept by when the land was young,
And the great waves thundered along the bay,
Under the sailing seagull's feather,
Wildly white in the stormy weather,
And, murmuring ever a restless song,
Shone, crumpled green, on a sunny day.
Through eighteen hundred years of our time,
With their storms and sieges, these walls have stood,
Till the cliff that the waves once strove to climb
Is left in a meadow solitude;
And now no sea-gulls' nests are there,
But ash-trees and thorns make the cliff-side fair,
And the green of the leaves, and the white of the lime,
And the red of the berries is sweet and good.
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poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Female Martyr
'BRING out your dead!' The midnight street
Heard and gave back the hoarse, low call;
Harsh fell the tread of hasty feet,
Glanced through the dark the coarse white sheet,
Her coffin and her pall.
'What--only one!' the brutal hack-man said,
As, with an oath, he spurned away the dead.
How sunk the inmost hearts of all,
As rolled that dead-cart slowly by,
With creaking wheel and harsh hoof-fall!
The dying turned him to the wall,
To hear it and to die!
Onward it rolled; while oft its driver stayed,
And hoarsely clamored, 'Ho! bring out your dead.'
It paused beside the burial-place;
'Toss in your load!' and it was done.
With quick hand and averted face,
Hastily to the grave's embrace
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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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