Quotes about warily, page 3
Little Birds
last posture
pink little sparrow
so still in its few feathers
(a dead bird i saw that moved me nearly to tears)
inspired by
Little Birds
Little Birds are dining
Warily and well,
Hid in mossy cell:
Hid, I say, by waiters
Gorgeous in their gaiters -
I've a Tale to tell.
Little Birds are feeding
Justices with jam,
Rich in frizzled ham:
Rich, I say, in oysters
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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Kiss With A Twist.......[Marriage; Temptation; Humor]
My wife was out of town for a week. It was time to have a treat.
So I took a cab to my favorite bistro to have myself a bite to eat.
It was as I prepared to return home that I glanced at a corner table.
I tried to pry my eyes away from her, but found I was not able.
What had caught my eye was candlelight reflecting from a silver gown,
worn by one forbidden to me since the aisle I walked my new bride down.
Inside the gown was one of the sweetest gifts God to men has given,
a young innocent, creamy-smooth-skinned morsel to which my body was driven.
I tried with all my might to resist this newly-found temptation,
But, alas, I believe it was too much dinner wine that was leading me to damnation.
The craving was too much for me; I felt like a child in Toy Land.
I warily approached her table, looked about, then took her in my hand.
I undressed her with my eyes during our ride to the hotel.
That I was in danger of disrupting my marriage, I could surely tell.
I ordered up a suite on the top floor, for myself and my forbidden sweet,
but I did not allow myself to indulge, until I'd pulled up our bed sheet.
My mouth was watering with desire, my lips were slightly held apart.
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poem by Bri Edwards
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The three tailors
I shall tell you in rhyme how, once on a time,
Three tailors tramped up to the inn Ingleheim,
On the Rhine, lovely Rhine;
They were broke, but the worst of it all, they were curst
With that malady common to tailors--a thirst
For wine, lots of wine.
"Sweet host," quoth the three, "we're hard up as can be,
Yet skilled in the practice of cunning are we,
On the Rhine, genial Rhine;
And we pledge you we will impart you that skill
Right quickly and fully, providing you'll fill
Us with wine, cooling wine."
But that host shook his head, and he warily said:
"Though cunning be good, we take money instead,
On the Rhine, thrifty Rhine;
If ye fancy ye may without pelf have your way
You'll find that there's both host and the devil to pay
For your wine, costly wine."
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poem by Eugene Field
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Music in an Empty House
The house was empty and
the people of the house
gone many months
Months for the weevil
for the patient worm
timbe r-mole softly tunnelling
;for the parliament of rats
Footsteps slink past
damp walls
down
long
& nbsp; corridors
Slow feet
warily scuff
bare boards
The much-bitten
&nbs p;tapestry
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poem by Hugh Sykes Davies
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The Glove - A Tale
Before his lion-court,
Impatient for the sport,
King Francis sat one day;
The peers of his realm sat around,
And in balcony high from the ground
Sat the ladies in beauteous array.
And when with his finger he beckoned,
The gate opened wide in a second,--
And in, with deliberate tread,
Enters a lion dread,
And looks around
Yet utters no sound;
Then long he yawns
And shakes his mane,
And, stretching each limb,
Down lies he again.
Again signs the king,--
The next gate open flies,
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poem by Friedrich Schiller
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The Desert
Uncircumscribed, unmeasured, vast,
Eternal as the Sea;
What lacks the tidal sea thou hast--
Profound stability.
Beneath the sun that burns and brands
In hushed Noon's halting breath,
Calm as the Sphinx upon thy sands
Thou art--nay, calm as death.
The desert foxes hide in holes,
The jackal seeks his lair;
The sombre rocks, like reddening coals,
Glow lurid in the glare.
Only some vulture far away,
Bald-headed, harpy-eyed,
Flaps down on lazy wing to prey
On what has lately died.
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poem by Mathilde Blind
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Porphyria's Lover
The rain set early in to-night,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
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poem by Robert Browning from Cavalier Tunes (1842)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Mr. Flood's Party
Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night
Over the hill between the town below
And the forsaken upland hermitage
That held as much as he should ever know
On earth again of home, paused warily.
The road was his with not a native near;
And Eben, having leisure, said aloud,
For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear:
"Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon
Again, and we may not have many more;
The bird is on the wing, the poet says,
And you and I have said it here before.
Drink to the bird." He raised up to the light
The jug that he had gone so far to fill,
And answered huskily: "Well, Mr. Flood,
Since you propose it, I believe I will."
Alone, as if enduring to the end
A valiant armor of scarred hopes outworn.
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poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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The Book
It was late in the autumn of 2210
The shuttle had gone off to Mars,
The highways of Asia were solidly blocked
With a billion Chinese cars,
I'd wandered around the Museum of Trees,
The Fruit Section opened my eyes,
The bitterness taste of electronic apples
So cleverly changed, and disguised.
I seemed to be wandering round on my own,
Museums were on their way out,
The Virtual Channels were simple to screen
And more easy to access, no doubt.
The ancient attendant had followed me round,
He warily started to say:
‘I have something hidden, way out in the back
If you're interested, come out this way! '
He led to a room that was dingy and dark,
Went over and pulled up the blind,
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poem by David Lewis Paget (3 September 2012)
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To Rhea
Thee, dear friend, a brother soothes,
Not with flatteries, but truths,
Which tarnish not, but purify
To light which dims the morning's eye.
I have come from the spring-woods,
From the fragrant solitudes;
Listen what the poplar tree,
And murmuring waters counselled me.
If with love thy heart has burned,
If thy love is unreturned,
Hide thy grief within thy breast,
Though it tear thee unexpressed.
For, when love has once departed
From the eyes of the false-hearted,
And one by one has torn off quite
The bandages of purple light,
Though thou weft the loveliest
Form the Soul had ever dressed,
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poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson
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